The front door swung open.
I braced myself for her. For my mother. For the woman who had forged my signature, drained my accounts, and left me drowning in debt while she ran off with some pathetic boyfriend.
But it wasn't her.
Geneviève limped through the doorway, her purple hair pulled into a messy knot, her face pale beneath the freckles. Edmund was right behind her, one hand hovering at her elbow like she might collapse at any moment. Behind them, four men in dark tactical gear filed in silently and dispersed through the house.
"Gen," Adrian said, releasing me and crossing to her. "You shouldn't be out of resting."
"I am fine," Geneviève insisted, though she winced as she shifted her weight off her bad leg. "Edmund was being insufferable."
"I was being concerned," Edmund corrected. "There's a difference."
"You followed me around for three hours asking if I needed water. I am not a houseplant."
"You were shot!"
