Draven's pov
The rain didn't stop.
It hammered the windshield, drowning the city in a relentless rhythm as if the sky itself was mourning something it couldn't fix.
I kicked the door open, my boots slamming into the tile as I barreled inside, my chest still heaving from the sprint and my hands smeared with her blood. My clothes,once sleek, clean-cut,were ruined. Streaks of crimson, dust, ash. The stink of gunpowder clung to my sleeves.
I didn't care.
All I cared about was the weight in my arms,the fragile, trembling thing that whimpered every time I took a corner too fast or jolted over a pothole.
Eira.
Her head lolled against my shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lashes soaked. She tried to speak, her voice barely audible over the thundering of my own pulse.
"He said you sent him…"
The words tore through me. Like bullets. Like goddamn betrayal incarnate.
"I didn't." My voice cracked, harsher than I meant it to be. "You hear me, Eira? I didn't send anyone. Never you. Never."
