Elena’s pov
The air in the prison reeked of mildew and fear, a scent I was quickly growing accustomed to. I watched, stomach churning, as two guards dragged the lifeless body of the captured spy from his cell. His limbs flopped awkwardly, like a discarded puppet. Yesterday, he’d been sneering defiance; now, he was just another body being carried out.
Oliver, his jaw tight with controlled fury, stood beside me. "He bit his own tongue," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Preferable to facing our justice."
I studied Oliver's face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the controlled flicker in his usually warm brown eyes. The spy’s demise was too convenient, too neatly packaged. It was clear Oliver had taken matters into his own hands. I couldn't blame him. The unexpected fact that the sp
