Amara's POV

We pulled back onto the lane like ghosts, Paul driving, me staring at the paper with Marchand’s scrawled promise folded in my palm. The van’s engine hummed, steady and indifferent, and every mile felt full of consequences.

When we walked through the door, the house smelled like antiseptic and Cassian. He had his good shirt on and the bandages had been replaced; his face looked thinner, but when he saw me, something eased in him.

“Did you see them?” he asked before I ...