Amara's POV

Paul had been silent since we left Marchand’s estate, his hands white on the steering wheel, his jaw tight with the kind of restraint that felt heavier than anger. I could feel the weight of his frustration, his worry, hanging thick in the air between us. The city lights streaked outside, and for a while, the hum of the tires against the road was the only sound that existed.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. “This was a bad idea, Amara,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on the ...