Rhysand
The ride back was slower than usual that evening. The New York weather dramatically fluctuated between rain and dark clouds, casting a bleak light across the traffic-jammed road.
As Dave turned into the driveway, I found myself feeling apprehensive about what I might find. The argument with Bridgette earlier today, her silence, and her rage had worn me down.
The memory of how her eyes had flashed with anger after I had ordered her to return home—the look of spite, the rage, and the underlying fear she struggled so hard to hide—combined to form a sharp-edged blade that twisted in my gut.
The house was quiet when I stepped inside, save for the low hum of the fridge and the distant tick of a wall clock. There was no special welcome or even a note.
I figured Aaron and Margaret had
