Elena’s POV

My wrist still burns where Michael’s fingers dug into my skin, even though he’s gone. The red marks are small, faint, but to me, they feel like chains branded into my flesh. I rub at them absently, as if I can erase the memory of his grip, but the truth is it lingers deeper than skin. I don’t like being rattled. I don’t like giving anyone that power over me. Yet, as I gather the scattered pages on my desk, my hands won’t stop trembling. I hate that Cole sees it. I hate ...