POV RUBY
The safe house was a weathered stone cottage perchedprecariously on the cliffs of Anadolu Kavağı, overlookingthe black, churning throat where the Bosphorus met theBlack Sea. It was a place of isolation, owned by a contactof Thorne’s who had died years ago, leaving the property a ghost in the international land registry.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of salt and driedlavender. There were no holographic monitors here, no humming servers. Just the crackle of a small fire in thehearth and the heavy, pulsing silence of two souls whowere no longer separate.
Nevan had spent the last hour securing the perimeter, hismovements silent and rhythmic. But I didn't need to look out the window to know where he was. I could feel him. I could feel the ghost of the wind against his neck, t
