His eyes held the storm of a decade's worth of hate, and now, I was at its center.
The car was a tomb on wheels, the silence a physical weight crushing the air from my lungs. Lysander didn’t look at me. His knuckles were bone-white on the steering wheel, his jaw a granite line of fury. Every shift of his body, every controlled breath, screamed of a rage so vast and cold it had frozen the very sound in his throat.
He had retrieved me from that sterile, terrifying room with the efficiency of a predator extracting its young from a trap. There had been no words, only a grip on my arm that was just shy of painful, his body a shield and a prison as he ushered me past the smirking visage of Julian Thorne and into the waiting armored car.
The penthouse doors hissed open, and the moment they sea
