The car ride was a blur of headlights and darkness and the steady rhythm of Dante's breathing beside her.
Mila was aware of it all in that distant, detached way that came after the adrenaline finally stopped screaming through her veins. She could feel the leather seat beneath her, the weight of Dante's hand resting on her thigh, the way his thumb moved in slow, unconscious circles against her leg.
She could hear the low murmur of voices from the front seat—Marco giving orders, coordinating something she didn't have the energy to follow.
But mostly, she was just tired.
Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired.
It was the kind of exhaustion that made her limbs feel like lead and her thoughts move like molasses. She kept her eyes half-closed, her head resting against the seat, and let the motion of the car lull her into something that wasn't quite sleep but wasn't quite consciousness either.
When the car stopped, she felt Dante's hand tighten on her leg.
"We're home," he said quietly.
