Gemma
The drive back to the Blackwell estate is a blur of high-speed turns and the metallic scent of spent gunpowder. I am tucked under Cassian’s arm, my head pressed against his chest. I can hear the frantic, thundering rhythm of his heart—a stark contrast to the icy, composed mask he usually wears. He hasn't let go of me since he pulled me from the wreckage of the Bentley. His fingers are dug into my shoulder, possessive and bruising, as if he’s afraid I’ll evaporate if he loosens his grip.
"Cassian," I whisper, my voice cracking. "The recording... Silas and Reyna. They wanted the inheritance moved up. They wanted me dead before the three-year mark."
His jaw is set so tight I can see the muscle leaping in his cheek. He doesn't look at me; his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, dark and
