Fifteen
When Grace’s back hit the pavement, she sprang up from the recliner, gasping. Strong hands pressed against her chest, compressing her.
“It’s okay,” Heron said. “Breathe.”
She swore. “A window? Was there really no other way?”
Sweat had broken out on her brow.
“Okay, so I didn’t build a proper exit.”
“Obviously!” She stood on shaking legs, pacing. She needed to release the adrenaline somehow. Even as a spectator, and her body free from a rig, she had underestimated how convincing the landscape would be. The smell of sweat on Tristan’s skin. The sound of the wind whipping around her face—Heron’s face. The crease between her doppelgänger’s eyes as she’d reached out the window to grab them and missed.
Everything had felt as real as the heart beating in her chest now.
Heron’s pup
