The drive to her old packhouse was silent, save for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires. Althea sat stiffly on one side of the seat, staring at her hands as her fingers twisted nervously in her lap. The air inside the car felt heavy, suffocating, and the closer they got to the packhouse, the tighter her chest became.
Kaden sat across from her, leaning casually back in his seat, but the sharpness in his silver eyes betrayed his calm demeanor. He was watching her, studying every twitch of her hands, every shudder of her breath.
“You’re overthinking again,” Kaden said, breaking the silence.
Althea flinched slightly, her head snapping up. “What?”
“You’ve been twisting your fingers like that for ten minutes,” Kaden said, nodding toward her hands.
