The interior of the black sedan smelled of expensive leather and a cloying, floral perfume that made my already sensitive stomach churn. Rain lashed against the tinted windows, blurring the neon lights of Chicago into streaks of jagged color. I sat huddled in the corner of the backseat, my heart performing a frantic, irregular dance against my ribs. Each breath felt like swallowing glass. Just an hour ago, I was in the arms of the man I thought I loved—now, I was a fugitive in the car of his greatest enemy.
Beside me, Sloane Black looked like the picture of predatory elegance. She didn't speak for the first few minutes; she simply watched the city pass by, a faint, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She looked like a woman who had just won the lottery, and I realized with a sickening j
