Lena
The silence of the overlook was still ringing in my ears when we pulled back into the alley behind the shop. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Everything was too tight—my lungs, the damp fabric of my shirt, the way the brick walls seemed to lean in as Max killed the engine.
I slid off the pillion. My knees buckled, and I had to grab his shoulder to stay upright.
"Easy," Max muttered. He didn't pull away. He just stood there, a wall of warm leather and the scent of ozone.
"I’m fine. Just... the adrenaline is wearing off."
"It shouldn't be," he said. His voice was a low, jagged rasp.
He didn't look at me. He was looking at the shadows near the dumpster. I felt it then—a prickle at the base of my neck. The smell of burnt fat from the diner was sour tonight, mixing wi
