Aria's POV.
By the time evening rolled around, the rink was colder than I expected. I sat high up in the bleachers, arms tucked into the oversized jersey Cassian had tossed at me earlier. It was the same deep navy his team wore, number 9 stitched in bold white on the back…his number.
The fabric was warm, soft, smelling faintly like him, and I hated how much I noticed that.
My hair was pulled into a messy bun, not because I was trying to look cute, but because I needed it out of my face. Still, it exposed the side of my neck where Cassian’s “mark” sat…the fake one he’d put there to make this whole act believable. I could feel it, even without touching it, like it was announcing itself to anyone who cared enough to look.
The rink smelled faintly of ice and metal. The scrape of skates cu
