The air outside Cross Tower was crisp, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of an Obsidian City dusk.
I stepped through the heavy revolving doors, pulling my dark wool coat tighter around my shoulders. Adrian Vale was already waiting at the curb beside the sleek, midnight-black sedan. The moment he spotted me, he moved with practiced efficiency to open the rear passenger door.
I paused, looking at the plush leather of the back seat—Damon’s usual domain—and then at Adrian’s impassive, vigilant face.
Instead of climbing into the back like an ornament, I rounded the hood and opened the front passenger door myself.
Adrian’s eyebrows twitched upward—a microscopic shift in his otherwise impenetrable composure—but he said nothing. He closed the rear door without a word, rounded the car, and sett
