They drove through the storm with nothing but silence and fury between them. Elira leaned her head against the cold window, blood still crusted beneath her fingernails. Her pulse hadn’t come down. Not since she took that shot, not since Arlena’s body crumpled to the floor like a discarded puppet.
Soren hadn’t said a word.
His hand was tight on the wheel, his knuckles bone-white. Every so often, his gaze flicked to the backseat—where their son slept soundly, unaware of how close the world had come to ending.
Elira finally spoke.
“She told me Damien’s alive.”
Soren didn’t react.
“He wants the boy,” she continued. “He thinks he’s his.”
A beat passed. Then another.
“He’s not,” Soren said flatly.
“You’re sure?”
“I’d know.”
Her stomach twisted. She should’ve felt relief. But instead—f
