The rain wouldn’t stop. It hit the cracked roof of the garage in angry bursts, a rhythm that matched the uneven thud of Luna’s heartbeat. The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber still clung to her skin, reminding her she shouldn’t even be alive.
Adrian stood near the door, rain dripping from his coat, shadows cutting across his jaw. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of the storm — part savior, part threat.
Luna wiped a streak of oil from her face, refusing to meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He didn’t move. “You could’ve died tonight.”
She let out a bitter laugh, voice hoarse. “Guess I should’ve listened to the billionaire who thinks he can predict every disaster.”
“Don’t twist this,” he said, tone low but sharp. “That wasn’t a race — it was a hit disguised as one.”
Luna
