Eluna’s P.O.V.
We were walking fast—half power-walking, half speed-fleeing—and Jackson still somehow managed to look annoyingly handsome, like he had just stepped out of some moody music video instead of an ambush by journalists and my five-year-old niece.
I kept throwing paranoid glances over my shoulder. No cameras yet. No voices shouting his name. But it was only a matter of time. I was smart enough to know just that.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I muttered, my footsteps pounding harder with every word.
“You promised me, Jackson. You said you’d stay hidden.”
“I did stay hidden,” he said, falling into step beside me.
“Until Rick called and told me they had sniffed you out and were circling like vultures. What was I supposed to do—just wait for them to get to you first?”
“Yes! That
