We were running from our pasts, and they were gaining on us.
The ride to the safe house was a silent, high-speed blur. Lysander drove with a terrifying, focused intensity, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The photo on his phone felt like a brand, searing our vulnerability into my soul. Thorne wasn’t just a threat in the shadows; he was a phantom in our most private moments.
I sat stiffly beside him, the image of Marco’s lifeless body etched behind my eyelids. The cold, casual execution. The way Thorne had spoken of me, “the little artist,” as if I were a piece on a chessboard. A tremor ran through me, a cocktail of fear and a strange, defiant rage.
Lysander’s hand shot out from the wheel, finding mine. He didn’t look at me, but his grip was crushing, an anchor in the storm. “Br
