Val's P.OV

The air in the taxi was a stark contrast to the charged silence we’d left outside Domino’s. The driver had the radio on low, some generic talk station, a bland soundtrack to our turmoil. Brielle was fuming, muttering curses under her breath about Ronan’s ancestry and personal habits. Talia was silent, her hand a steady, comforting pressure on my knee. I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur, trying to process the confrontation. The cold fury was still there, a ...