Killian's POV
I stood outside the cell with Liam.
The corridor smelled like disinfectant, nothing comforting. Caleb’s five steps behind, carrying the box of vervain like it’s the most precious cargo in the world.
I should be pacing. Instead I keep my hands in my pockets and count the tiles.
Isla’s voice slides through the bars, flat and hateful. “Don’t stress yourself, Killian.” She smirks even though I can see the tremor in her jaw. “You can’t rescue me, and you’ll be a fool to try. I feel nothing for you. Nothing!”
It’s the way she spits the words that tells me she’s not herself. She’s railing at me like she’s daring me to prove her wrong. But the set of her shoulders, the hollow cold in her eyes, that’s not Isla.
I remember the girl who laughed at bad jokes and hid coffee ring
