Julian’s POV:
Theodore Blackwell isn’t a man who runs.
That’s one of the things I noticed over the years.
He stands at the edge of the warehouse doorway like the chaos behind him is nothing more than background noise. Gunfire echoes somewhere inside and men shout orders that no one is following. Red emergency lights still pulse against the concrete walls.
None of it seems to touch him. His arm is steady and the gun in his hand is pointed directly at my chest.
I don’t move.
Ava’s fingers are still wrapped around mine. I feel the tremor in her grip. Not weakness though. She’s not a weak one. It’s adrenaline, the shock finally catching up with her.
The river wind cuts through the space between us. Cold and sharp, carrying the smell of oil and rust.
“Step away from her,” Theodore says.
