Beckett’s POV
The world tilts, spinning on an axis that feels entirely wrong.
The heavy, oaky taste of bourbon still coats my tongue, but the sharp sting of cold air in the ship’s corridor does nothing to clear the fog in my brain. All I can see is the bright flash of her blonde hair, the quick, furious stride of her legs as she storms down the carpeted hallway away from me.
Elodie.
My leather dress shoes feel like lead, catching on the plush runner as I sprint after her. I stumble, my shoulder slamming hard into the panelled wall with a dull thud. Pain shoots through my arm, but I barely register it. I push off the wood, my legs wobbling beneath me as I force myself into a hurried, uneven jog.
'Elodie, wait,' I try to say, but it comes out as a thick, slurred mess of noise.
She does
