"Fuck."
He pulls his hand away, and the loss of his touch feels like cold water.
"What is it?" I ask, reaching for him.
He doesn't answer. Just stares at the screen, knuckles white around the phone.
"Drogo?"
He starts the engine, jaw set. Won't look at me.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." But his voice is tight. Controlled. The way it gets when he's lying.
I've known him seventeen years. I know when something's wrong.
"Drogo, talk to me—"
"Not now, Alena."
He pulls into traffic, and I watch his profile—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands grip the steering wheel like he's fighting something. A thought, maybe.
Whatever was on that screen terrified him.
And Drogo doesn't scare easily.
3
DROGO
I can't stop seeing it. The photo on my phone. Alena outside the restaurant, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette in hand. The angle close—too fucking close. Whoever took it was standing right there.
They were that close to her.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Knuckles white.
She's mine.
The thought hits like a fist. Primal. Undeniable.
She's mine, and they were close enough to touch her. Close enough to hurt her.
Klaus knows where she is. What she looks like. How to find her.
And that terrifies me more than anything he could do to me.
"McDonald's and home," I say, forcing my voice steady. The car roars under us. Fuck. Maybe I am not as calm as I want to pretend to be.
Beautiful machine, this Aston Martin, but I know she doesn't care. She's a Mustang girl, wild and unapologetic.
Truth—I hate manual cars. I hate cars, period. I'm a biker. Give me a bike any day—open road, wind punching my face, the speed stripping everything else away. But I bought this car for her. Wanted to impress her in ways I'd never admit.
She knows. That woman could pull a donut under Big Ben with the police chasing her and she wouldn't get caught.
The drive is silent except for the engine and whatever storm still rages in her eyes from that prick.
I don't ask. She doesn't offer.
