Nixon’s POV
"Look at her," I muttered, my forehead pressed against the cold glass of my study window.
Down in the courtyard, the late afternoon sun cut sharp shadows across the grass. Scout stood perfectly still while her sister wrapped both arms tightly around her neck. From three stories up, Simone looked like a grieving saint, her face buried deep into Scout as her spine shook with heavy, wet sobs. To anyone else, it was a beautiful picture. The perfect family reunion. A loving sister forgiving the black sheep.
Then the bond hit me.
A sharp, icy spike slammed directly into my chest, forcing the air out of my lungs in a harsh gasp. I stumbled back an inch, my hand clamping down over my ribs. It was not my emotion. It was Scout. The sheer terror bleeding through the mental link was so
