"Get some sleep," he says roughly. "We'll be in Tallahassee in eight hours."
He closes his eyes and turns his head away. Conversation over.
But I saw it.
The crack in his armor.
The war between what he wants and what he thinks he's allowed to have.
I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, but I don't sleep.
I think about monsters.
I think about men who kill without blinking and then touch you like you're made of glass.
I think about the way he saidthat was a mistakewhen we both know he didn't mean it.
The plane carries us west, toward Florida, toward whatever comes next.
And somewhere over the Atlantic, I make a decision.
RJ might be determined to keep his walls up.
But I've never been very good at following orders.
And I have eight hours to figure out how to tear them down.
CHAPTER THREE
RJ
Florida hits me like a wall the moment we step off the plane.
The heat. The humidity. The thick, wet air that wraps around you like a fist and squeezes.
Ireland is damp, sure, but it's a cold damp—crisp and biting, the kind that wakes you up.
This is something else entirely.
This is breathing through a wet towel while standing in an oven.
Jaysus. How do people live here?
Dalla steps onto the tarmac beside me, and I watch her shoulders relax for the first time since Dublin.
She tips her face toward the sun—brutal, blinding sun, nothing like the watery gray we left behind—and takes a deep breath.
"Home," she murmurs.
Not quite.
We're still an hour from Tallahassee, still have to get to whatever secure location the Mackenzies have arranged.
But I understand what she means.
American soil. Familiar territory. Away from the Krajncs and their motives.
She thinks she's safer here.
