POV RUBY
The transit van rattled over the uneven cobblestones of the Dublin Docklands, a symphony of industrial decay and salty sea air. The sun, a pale disc in the grey Irish sky, barely managed to cut through the haze that clung to the towering cranes and rusted shipping containers. Every shadow felt like a hiding place, every distant siren a threat.
My hands clenched the mahogany journal on my lap, the key still tucked into its pages. Nevan drove with that terrifying calm of his, his eyes constantly darting between the road and the rearview mirror. He was a phantom in plain sight, and I was his unseen cargo. The intimacy of last night on that mattress, the shared vulnerability and the raw desire, felt like a lifetime ago. Now, we were back to the hunter and his very unwilling, yet inc
