The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow.
Elena sat in the back of the black car, her pulse still racing, her hands curled in the folds of her coat. The coppery tang of gunpowder clung stubbornly to her skin.
Damian sat beside her, silent, his gaze fixed out the window. His shirt was dark at the shoulder, not blood, she hoped , and his hands were still faintly dusted with powder.
The driver took a route she didn’t recognise. They wound through narrow streets until they stopped in front of a townhouse tucked behind wrought-iron gates. No guards at the door, no obvious security , which, knowing Damian, meant there was more than she could see.
Inside, it was warm. The low light softened the sharp edges of the room: dark leather, shelves of books, a fire already lit in the gr
