The drive back was silent, but the air in the Cadillac was heavy with the ghost of what we'd done. When we finally pulled up to the curb in front of my apartment, the engine's idle was the only sound between us.
Abigail gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white, her eyes fixed straight ahead. The "Black Widow" mask was back on, but it was cracked. Her hair was messy, her lipstick was gone, and she looked like a woman who had just survived a crash.
"No one knows about this," she said, her voice a sharp, brittle blade. She finally looked at me, her gaze hard. "This was a mistake, Druski. A one-time lapse in judgment because I was... stressed. It never happens again. We go back to being what we were."
I leaned back against the leather seat, a slow, knowing grin spreading across my face. I looked at the slight flush still creeping up her neck—the mark of a woman who had been thoroughly undone.
