I can see it in his eyes.
He’s not bluffing.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
I don’t move.
Not yet.
Because one wrong move—and this ends bad.
Real bad.
“They found everything,” he says, almost conversational. “The notes. The maps. The schedule. My shrine to her.”
My pulse hammers.
“How I was going to wait until you got back from your little war, then take you out if you didn’t stay away.”
My vision narrows.
I hear it.
See it.
The way he planned it.
Thought it through.
Obsessed over it.
“Clean. Efficient. Personal.”
My stomach churns.
“And Esme?” I grind out, because that’s the only thing that matters right now.
Not me.
Never me.
Her.
My focus snaps back to him.
Sharp.
Deadly.
He goes soft when he says her name.
And that—that’s worse than the gun.
“Esme,” he breathes, like it’s something sacred.
Something he owns.
“She was always coming with me.”
