TRISTAN

I should have been celebrating a flawless race. Instead, I stood there watching Zion get pulled away by the crazy bomber girl. He wasn’t supposed to make it cross the finish line that easy. But somehow he emerged with barely a scratch. And with Max, of all people. My stomach burned.

And to make matters worse, our father was here. He towered over the instructors, arms folded behind his back like a marble statue about to pass judgement. He didn’t need to speak. His ...