The tires bite into the ice, fishtailing for half a second before gripping. The engine howls, a wounded animal desperate to break free from the world that almost killed her.
But the real danger isn’t outside.
It’s inside the car.
Sitting right next to me.
Luna Vega.
Her breathing ragged.
Her knuckles white.
Her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird under her skin.
I should be focused on the road.
I should be planning the next ten steps.
I should be calculating escape routes, Syndicate counterstrikes, the probability that Hale already sent the next wave.
But all I can focus on—
Is her.
How her lower lip trembles.
How she keeps blinking hard, like she’s fighting sleep and trauma and disbelief all at once.
How the bruise on her temple looks like something carved out of my rib ca
