Elian's eyes opened naturally, like always—minutes before the sun had the nerve to rise. He blinked slowly, letting the darkness of his small room sharpen into familiar shapes.

  The room was soft with shadows, the first light creeping in through the sts in the curtains. He blinked a few times, then slowly turned his head.

  Dane was still there, still in his bed, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only movement in the dimly lit room. Elian's gaze lingered on the peaceful lines of his partner's face, and some of the ever-present tension eased in sleep.

  Curled around the edges of Elian's too-small bed, a mountain of an ex-soldier in naked and heavy breaths. One big hand rested ft against Elian's pillow like he was reaching out even in sleep. His face was soft in sleep, looking younger and softer than when he was awake.

  Elian smiled a little and stayed there, soaking it in for a moment. He wanted to stay and just enjoy the peace. He didn't have any scheduled appointments this morning—just paperwork and maybe some reading about that new experimental treatment for water toxicity that came online a few weeks ago. But for now, he just wanted to be in the warmth next to his wman.

  Then reality kicked in. He needed the restroom. And he needed coffee. Elian sighed as he reluctantly pulled away from Dane's warmth. He cast one st lingering gnce at his sleeping partner before padding quietly to the bathroom, movements slow and careful not to disturb the rare moment of peace.

  The small space he called home wasn't much—half walls separated the bedroom from the kitchen, with a privacy screen hiding the bathroom. It was clean, lived-in, and filled with small comforts. But it was still a box in a struggling town, one trying its damnedest to hang on despite everything stacked against it.

  He shuffled to the kitchen, muttering under his breath, hair mussed and brain still on neutral.

  The square outside was still asleep. Through the wide front window, he could see the rusted fountain in the center of town, cracked dry and full of dust. The square stretched out like a compass, each path leading to another worn-down part of Avenridge. Moozy's Bakery had just started up for the morning, and Lena Hystien was setting up her market stand. Signs squeaked in the breeze. The air would smell like old heat and sand—not pleasant, but familiar.

  He flicked the switch on the coffee maker, brow furrowing when it didn't immediately hum to life. Nothing. There was a brief gurgle of hope, quickly snuffed out by more silence. Rubbing a hand over his face, he peered into the machine's dim interior—maybe the filter was clogged again. Or the water line kinked. One more thing to fix in this forgotten town.

  A slow, deep frustration rose in his chest, coiling tighter with each passing second. He'd meant to fix the damn coffee maker. Or order another. But the supply rotation was te—again—and time was never on his side these days.

  He smmed the gss carafe into the base with more force than intended. Not hard enough to shatter it. But close enough to hear the ominous creak of stressed material. A warning.

  In the abrupt motion, his elbow clipped the edge of the cabinet, sending a jolt of pain ncing up his arm. His hand jerked—too fast, too sharp—and knocked his favorite mug off the counter with a dull thud.

  The blue one. Chipped handle, faded line of script he could barely make out anymore after years of use. Dane had given it to him nearly two decades ago, a rare moment of tenderness amidst the chaos. It had followed him through warzones and a hundred different desote pnets, a tiny piece of home in the midst of hell.

  And now it slipped from his grasp.

  Shattered against the tile in a spray of ceramic shards.

  Elian stared at the wreckage, unmoving in the sudden, suffocating quiet. Just stood there, watching the pieces glisten in the harsh morning light filtering through the kitchen window, each shard a fractured memory.

  The sound woke Dane, gave him a jolt. But Elian—beautiful, graceful Elian—was a goddamn cacophony in the morning. He didn't hit grace until after at least two cups of coffee.

  Sliding out of bed, Dane followed the noise, already resigned to the situation. And that's how he found him: barefoot, shirt rumpled, standing over broken ceramic like it held some cosmic truth.

  Dane didn't say anything at first. He just stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around Elian's middle. Rested his chin on his shoulder.

  "Hungry," he mumbled, the word slipping out like an afterthought.

  Elian didn't react—not at first. He remained still, watching the quiet town square through the cracked kitchen window, his gaze distant.

  Then, after a heavy pause, he muttered, "The fridge is broken too. Like every other fucking thing in this town." His voice was low, devoid of the usual warmth. Not angry, just...tired. Sad.

  But that undercurrent of sadness struck Dane like a match to dry grass, igniting a familiar bze of frustration. Just like everything else in this fucking town. That hollow, defeated tone.

  He straightened, the muscles in his back tensing as he stepped away from Elian. Fear cwed up his throat, but anger burst forth first, a defensive reflex against the ache threatening to swallow them both.

  "If you hate it here so much, Elian, you can leave," he snapped. "Go live in your floating gss tower and drink filtered rainwater."

  Silence hung heavy between them, charged with unspoken tensions. Elian turned his head slowly, green eyes catching the light and narrowing slightly.

  "I didn't say a single thing about hating anything, Dane." His voice was low, measured, but Dane could hear the undercurrent of hurt simmering beneath.

  Dane pulled back, jaw tight as he realized his mistake. Elian turned fully to face him, anger blooming across his features—not loud, but sharp, controlled like the edge of a scalpel.

  "How dare you," he said, each word clipped. "You keep doing that. Putting words in my mouth. Like I'm always one step from leaving. Like I haven't chosen this pce every damn day. Like I haven't chosen you."

  Dane said nothing because Elian wasn't wrong. A familiar knot of guilt twisted in his gut. He never did anything to make Elian feel truly safe, to erase the lingering doubts that someday he might walk away. But he never meant to make Elian feel so disposable either. Not really.

  Because this was the thread Dane shouldn't have pulled. And now everything was unraveling, fraying at the seams he'd tried so hard to keep stitched together.

  Elian stepped past him, sleep clothes swishing at his ankles. His bare feet spped the floor as he moved to the front door and yanked it open with more force than necessary.

  "I'm going to shower at the clinic," he snapped, not looking back.

  Then he was gone. The door didn't sm—but it shut with a finality that stung more than any explosive sound could. Leaving Dane alone in the hollow silence.

  He stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the shattered ceramic remains. The half-dead coffee maker sat like a mockery on the counter. Slowly, his gaze drifted down to the ruined blue mug at his feet.

  "Good fucking morning," he muttered bitterly to himself, twisted with self-loathing.

  Might as well go kick a puppy and really get the day started right.

  Aftermath

  Left alone in Elian's kitchen—this space the doc had turned into something comforting and comfortable—Dane had always found it a bit of a mystery. Masculine in a way that suited them both. Strong lines, soft lighting, practical touches. But beyond their overnights, Elian never invited him here.

  Dane didn't know why, and he never pushed it.

  But if he had simply asked, Elian would've told him it was because he assumed Dane needed space. An old conversation they never truly finished—that Dane's PTSD made it hard for him to be around people too long. Especially in quiet moments like this.

  So, assumptions. No communication. That was always the problem with the two of them.

  Dane scratched the back of his neck and looked down at the shattered blue mug on the counter. Without really thinking, he crouched, swept up the shards, and cradled them in one of Elian's dishtowels. He wasn't going to throw it away. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It could be fixed. Eventually.

  He tucked the cloth bundle under his arm.

  He closed up behind him. Didn't lock the door—but made sure it shut tight. Elian might've forgotten his keys.

  Dane headed home, his home just above the sheriff's office. It had an identical yout as Elian's, but nowhere near as homey. His space was more utilitarian, stripped bare to the sparse essentials. A single chair and a bed comprised the living area, looking more like temporary quarters than an actual home. The kitchen was just as barren - one dented pot, a few mismatched ptes, and a battered coffee maker that had seen far too many graveyard shifts. This wasn't a pce anyone lived - it was just where Dane existed between one crisis and the next. Took a long shower to rinse off the dust of yesterday and whatever lingered from their night together. Pulled open his too-small closet and grabbed a fresh uniform. Gunbelt. Boots. The badge. Every piece of armor he had against the mess of the morning.

  By the time he stepped outside, the town was yawning to life.

  The bakery had just opened its front doors, letting the scent of fresh bread drift into the street. The Nezien brothers were setting up their bottlecap game again, scattering old credits across a warped table neither of them ever seemed close to winning.

  Dane checked the alleys out of habit, especially behind the tavern. But Gavin always beat him to it. Man started his mornings early, liked the quiet before the town fully woke up.

  Dane walked the square like always. Gave out nods when people waved or called a greeting. Got a few nods back. Pet the cat that wound between his boots like it owned the damn town. Maybe it did. Probably mad at them all for the state of things.

  No puppy in sight to kick. Lucky puppy.

  He told himself not to look at the clinic, there was no need to repeat countless other times he stared through those windows, looking like a lovesick fool. Yet, he did exactly that.

  Jaw clenched, hands in his pockets, he stared through the front window. Elian was inside, setting up for the day. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment before Elian turned away, full-body and deliberate, the motion cutting through Dane like a shard of ice. He swore under his breath and kept walking, boots scuffing against the dusty road.

  He stormed into the station, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. The pce was too quiet, the silence grating on his already frayed nerves. Gavin's boots were kicked up on his desk, chair creaking beneath him as he nursed a second cup of caffeine substitute.

  Dane shoved his feet off the desk with more force than necessary. "This isn't your damn living room."

  Gavin filed, chair wobbling precariously. "Stars above, warn a man before assaulting his toes."

  Dane smmed into his office, the echo sharp as a sp. Gavin stared at the door, sighing heavily as he took another sip of his drink. "You gonna stay mad forever or just until your man fixes the coffee machine?"

  Silence hung thick in the air, broken only by the distant clinking of a cup against the metal desk.

  Gavin raised his voice, undeterred. "You love the man, Dane. Ain't a soul in town doesn't know it. Man up and fix it. Even the drunk in the cell agrees."

  From the cell, a gruff voice piped up. "He's got a point."

  Late That Morning (Outside Avenridge)

  She moved like a ghost across the dry rock, boots silent against the sand-hardened earth. The sun was fully up now, hanging hot and mean above the cracked horizon. But she kept to the alleys, the drainage ditches, the dry irrigation paths that once fed her family's crops. She hadn't been into town since she stepped off that shuttle. Not properly, not on foot. She only saw it from above when she stealthy flew in on Asrell's shuttle.

  Asrell was already grumbling in her head. The prince-symbiote had been uncharacteristically quiet earlier, but now that they were closer to people and buildings and rusted-out vehicles, his commentary was in full force. "This is your grand pn? Ugly buildings? Worn dirt? No wonder this pce fell apart. You should've let me nd the ship right in the middle of this square and decred war."

  She muttered under her breath, "It's the only way to get back what we both want." Asrell huffed—loud and princely in her mind—but didn't argue further. "You owe me a roof," he added ter, petunt and pointed. "This had better be worth it."

  She wore different clothes than yesterday. A drab tunic, dusty scarf pulled high to shade her face, hood low. A leather vest, mostly to hide Asrell's glow from where he set nestled between her shoulder bdes. She didn't need the extra attention as the less she was seen, the better.

  The town looked different up close. Worse, in some ways. The paint on the walls had peeled like sunburned skin. Signs that once advertised bright businesses were faded and crooked. The fountain in the center of the square was rusted through, filled with sand and weeds. The people... they looked like they'd been surviving too long. Tight smiles. Watchful eyes. Shoulders too tense for a morning. She kept her head down. Moved like she belonged. Like a dusty traveler with somewhere to be and no time to talk.

  And she did have somewhere to be. Elian's clinic. She'd timed it for te afternoon. That's when the shuttles from outside brought in the workers—miners, surveyors, scavengers who worked the surrounding areas. Usually hungry, dirty, and grateful for food or rest. Only there weren't many now. There was a time when the shuttles would be lined side by side, colorful rows of painted transport, marking where they came from and where they were going to. But now it was just a few—faded, washed out, worn down. Maybe fifty travelers, if that. She remembered when it used to be hundreds. The flow of people used to bring money, color, and stories. Now... just a trickle. She didn't linger, didn't want to take the chance of anyone recognizing her before she accomplished what she set out to do.

  She needed to see if the new town doctor could help her. If he had the skill. She'd looked him up—Dr. Elian Rho. War medic. A promising future. Not the kind of man you expected to end up here. Her steps quickened as she neared the clinic, her pulse racing with nervous anticipation. This was her one chance, her only hope of undoing the injustice that had been done to her and Asrell. She couldn't afford to fail.

  In The Clinic

  Elian was trying to work.

  Trying being the key word.

  He moved one pile of supplies from one shelf to another. Then back again. Busywork. Nothing real. Just trying to look occupied, to not think about the fight with Dane. The same fight they kept circling around, like two pnets trapped in each other's gravity well.

  Because they couldn't fight about the real thing—not again. They already fought that war. And it nearly destroyed them both, leaving scars that ran deeper than the faded marks on their skin.

  He paused, took a sip from the to-go cup Moozy had handed him with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder earlier that morning. The coffee was strong, the roll stuffed with eggs and mystery meat, surprisingly good. The bakery pitied him. That was fine. He'd take pity if it came with caffeine and carbs to sustain him through another long day of patching up the walking wounded.

  The radio crackled, the sound cutting through the quiet like a dull knife.

  "Stratos Vale Corporation—A New Tomorrow. Engineered Today."

  The voice was too chipper, too smooth, like a salesman peddling snake oil to the desperate.

  Elian froze. Bite mid-air, the roll hovering before his lips.

  His jaw clenched. His hands trembled—not with fear. With rage, a molten fury that bubbled up from some primal pce inside him.

  He turned to stare at the bsted device. The radio chirped on about peace and prosperity, pns for the future and how fucking dare they spew such lies after everything they'd done.

  He hurled the radio across the room with a vicious underhanded throw.

  His aim, unfortunately, was still trash even with a jolt of the coffee's caffeine thrumming through his veins.

  It ricocheted off the wall near the door, shattered in a pathetic burst of sparks. The ad cut off mid-slogan, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

  He stood there. Breathless. Chest heaving.

  Then, ftly: "...Well, shit."

  A knock. Startlingly loud in the quiet space.

  Elian blinked, the rage draining from him as quickly as it had fred, leaving only a hollow ache behind.

  Outside, Mia stood on the sidewalk, startled by the crash. She knocked again, hesitant, her knuckles rapping lightly against the weathered door. A part of her wondered if she should turn back, the silence from within making her throat tighten with uncertainty.

  Elian, sheepish, opened the door and waved her in with an apologetic smile pying at the corners of his mouth. "Come in, come in," he urged, stepping aside to allow her entry.

  She took one step in, her foot crunching faintly on a shard of pstic and circuitry. She eyed the wreckage on the floor, her hands itching to pick it up, to fix it, to understand the intricate workings that had been so carelessly disrupted. A slight frown creased her brow as she surveyed the damage.

  "Well, my diagnosis is: it's broken," Mia quipped, her face so serious as she looked the pieces.

  Elian ughed then, a soft, real ugh that seemed to bubble up from deep within him. It startled her more than the radio's cacophonous crash. Elian had a welcoming look to him, his dark curls framing a face that radiated a gentle warmth. His clean-cut trousers, while not pressed, weren't wrinkled, and the button-down shirt beneath his cream-colored jacket was open at the colr, the unmistakable insignia of a real doctor pinned neatly to the breast pocket.

  And the pce looked... comforting. Familiar, yet not. It had changed since her father ran it—the equipment more modern, the yout slightly altered—but somehow, it hadn't. The bones were still there. The warmth that had permeated every nook and cranny, a soothing balm for the weary soul.

  The front clinic was small but smartly id out. A trio of seats along one wall, a low table between them bearing a stack of well-thumbed magazines. The reception desk curved gently, cluttered but organized in a way that bespoke years of experience. Screens glowed low behind it, casting a faint bluish hue. A dusty potted pnt stood in the corner like it had seen better days, its leaves drooping slightly as if weary from neglect. Through the open yout, she could see the door that led to the back rooms where treatment and surgeries happened, closed but beckoning with the promise of healing hands and soothing words.

  Her eyes caught the shelf beside the reception desk, and she froze, her breath catching in her throat.

  Her father's journals.

  She stepped toward them, unable to help herself, drawn like a moth to a fme. Fingers brushing the worn spines with a reverence born of love and loss. She would know those bindings anywhere, the soft leather caressing her calloused fingertips like the gentle embrace of a long-lost friend.

  Elian watched her, his gaze keen and understanding. And in that small, reverent touch, she told him everything – the aching loss, the cherished memories, the deep well of love that would never run dry.

  "I found them in boxes," he said quietly, his voice a hushed whisper that seemed to fill the space between them. "Kept them. They helped when I first got here. Your father's notes were meticulous. I still reference them."

  He saw what Dane had told him, the stillness on her face, what at first seemed like a ck of emotional reaction. But he saw her hand shake, the way she brushed her fingers over the leather with reverence born of love and loss.

  "I could box them up for you, they are yours afterall," he said quietly, his voice a hushed whisper that seemed to fill the space between them. She gave him a small shake of her head, and while still not looking at them, her voice rang true. "No, they are where they need to be. He would have been so happy to know that someone found use in their words."

  She took a step back with those words, back from the journals and back from him. With a jolt, she realized that he knew who she was, so distracted by her father's old journals, she forgot to brace herself against the anger and hate. Quickly, she took another step back, towards the door, her boots scuffing against the dusty floor. The air felt thick, oppressive, like a vise tightening around her chest. She swallowed hard, but she held herself still, eyes flickering over his face for any sign of aggression.

  She was retreating, and he realized he didn't even know why she had come. He didn't think it was for a gnce at those journals. There was a weight to her silence, a gravity that pulled at him, begging for understanding. But he knew better than to push, to pry at wounds not yet healed. So he simply nodded, letting the moment linger, letting her have the space she needed to find her way back from whatever memories gripped her.

  "Hey," he said. "You're not in trouble here. Not with me."

  She paused. Just for a beat. Not turning. Not speaking. Just breathing.

  "You can come back," he added. "If you need to. If you want to. Back door's open te. Always. Just walk in, and I'll be here to help you."

  A quiet beat passed between them.

  Asrell's voice slithered through her mind, low and disgusted. "Stay. Finish what we came for. I don't relish crawling back here again."

  She shook her head. A small motion meant for him, meant for the voice no one else could hear.

  But to Elian, it was a shake meant for him.

  His face fell. Just a little. Not rejection, not anger. Just something quieter. Sadder.

  She reached behind her, blindly feeling for the door, slipping out into the bright heat of day. And crashed directly into the one man in town guaranteed to recognize her.

  She barely closed the door before colliding with him. The man who once held her when she was screaming and red-faced in diapers. The man who fed her them when her parents were too exhausted to cook. The man who patted her head with flour-dusted hands every day until she left, his deep chuckle a comforting rumble.

  Moozy.

  Broad. Weathered. A living mountain carved from flour and kindness. His apron dusted with flour, a smear of jam near the hem - remnants of another day spent baking love into every crust. He looked like he always had—like a man who could hug the world—but his eyes were nothing like she remembered. Cold. Distant. Wounded.

  "Mia Virelli," he said, like her name was poison on his tongue.

  Sharp. Furious. Hurt etched into the deep lines of his face.

  Her heart cracked clean down the middle. She adored this man. Worshipped him as a child. And now— He said her name like it was a curse. Like it stained his mouth to speak it. The same mouth that once smiled down at her when she was just a red-faced, colicky infant and her parents were too exhausted to manage. Moozy, who bounced her on one hip while kneading dough with the other. Moozy, who taught her how to shape her first bread roll with those huge,

  Hearing him speak her name like that broke something in her chest. The pain nced through her, sharp and hot, and she could feel the symbiote drinking it in greedily. A dull ache settled in her bones, an old familiar weight that she had carried for so long.

  Moozy had a voice to match his size, and his voice carried through the town square, booming and gruff. The whispers came fast, a rising tide of shock and scorn. She could feel the eyes on her, burning into her skin like hot coals.

  And Asrell felt it. The spike of pain. The guilt. He fed on it like it was nectar, humming in her mind with quiet satisfaction. His presence was a constant hum at the back of her mind, a reminder that she was never truly alone.

  "That's her?" A loud male voice shouted, cutting through the murmurs like a knife. She didn't flinch, didn't even blink.

  "At st," Asrell muttered, blunt and almost pleased, "A reaction worthy of your crimes. Not that you committed them. But oh, the fvor of chaos." His voice was a whisper in her mind, taunting and amused.

  "The one who—" a shrill woman's voice added, trailing off into uncertainty.

  The sound carried. The name spread like fire through dry grass, igniting a bze of whispers and stares. She could feel the weight of their gazes, heavy and accusatory.

  "I thought she died." Another female voice tittered along the crowd, ced with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

  Doors creaked open, faces leaning out, eyes narrowed with suspicion. Whispers rose like a building storm, a cacophony of judgment and fear. She stood tall, her jaw clenched, her body tense but unmoving.

  Someone stepped forward. Too close. Anger and fear radiating off them in waves that she could practically taste. She braced herself, steeling her nerves for the inevitable confrontation.

  A mother pulled her child away with a hiss, clutching them protectively to her chest. The fear was palpable, a living thing that seemed to seep into the very air around them.

  The air shifted. A sudden stillness before the blowback, that fragile moment before the storm breaks. The tension was thick, heavy, and suffocating.

  A crate toppled with a crash, the sound shattering the silence like a gunshot.

  Someone shoved her. She didn't fight. Just stood there, jaw locked, feet pnted like she was bracing for impact. Ready for the onsught. She had endured worse, and she would endure this too.

  Then—

  Elian came out of the clinic, eyes wide, hearing the noise building just in front of the clinic. Coming out with palms raised in a plea for peace. "Everyone, please—"

  Someone shoved him. Hard. His head cracked against the stone wall with a solid thud, the impact reverberating through his skull. He stumbled, dazed, the world tilting precariously. Mia moved instinctively to catch him, her arms outstretched to break his fall.

  "Don't touch him!" someone screamed, voice shrill with fear and hatred. A woman, her face contorted with terror, jabbed a bony finger at Mia, spittle flying from her lips.

  But the crowd saw only movement. Threat. The return of the monster they had locked away. A murmur rippled through the gathering, rising in pitch and intensity like a wave cresting. A second shove came, this time from a burly man whose meaty hands connected with Elian's shoulder, sending him staggering back. A bottle sailed through the air, shattering at Mia's feet in a spray of gss shards. A rising scream of rage tore from a dozen throats.

  The tension snapped like an overstretched wire, the fragile thread holding the mob's fury at bay unraveling in an instant. A woman sobbed, her cries piercing the cacophony as spittle flew from her trembling lips. A man shouted slurs, vile words dripping with venom as he shoved his way towards Mia, eyes wild with hatred. Others screamed for order as the situation spiraled, voices rising in a discordant chorus that drowned out all reason.

  The Nezien brothers' game scattered like shrapnel, the bottlecaps spinning wildly across the dusty ground and striking ankles with sharp pings. One of them, wild-eyed and teeth bared in a snarl of defiance, pulled a compact pulse baton from beneath his tattered coat, the ancient weapon humming with deadly energy, crackling with lethal potential. The sound of it powering up was achingly familiar to every single former service member in that town square, the high-pitched whine triggering muscle memories of combat, but they were all too caught up in the near-riot to fully react, their instincts warring with the shock of such violence erupting on their doorstep.

  Dane and Gavin burst in like a storm front, uniforms crisp, faces grim. The commotion in the town square had escated into a near-riot, with raised voices and cshing bodies.

  Gavin hit first, pulling two people apart before fists nded. His voice barked commands, practiced and clipped, the tone of a veteran used to restoring order. He moved with a fluid grace, stepping between the combatants and using his bulk to create space.

  Dane saw Elian first—slumped against the clinic wall, dazed, a smear of blood just beneath his hairline. Everything in Dane snapped, a wave of protective rage crashing through him. Elian was his—his friend, his heart, his home in this fractured town. Seeing him injured unlocked something primal.

  He shoved past the chaos with brutal efficiency, eyes zeroing in on the Nezien brother and the illegal weapon in his hand. Without hesitation, Dane stepped in, snatched the compact pulse baton, and smmed it to the ground. The crackle of energy cut out instantly, the deadly hum silenced.

  "Sit your ass down," Dane growled, shoving the man none too gently back into his chair. The brother didn't resist—just stared with disgruntled eyes, knowing he'd overstepped.

  Dane barely noticed Lena's market stall colpse behind him, a cacophony of cttering wood and shattering jars. His focus narrowed to the still point at the riot's heart.

  He turned just in time to see Mia—stone still in the eye of the riot, unmoved, unreadable. She hadn't flinched as the chaos swirled around her, standing impassive and remote.

  She hadn't run. Hadn't fought. Just stood there, watching it all unfold.

  And Elian had paid the price for her eerie calm, a casualty of the storm she didn't try to stop.

  Gavin stepped into the gap between the crowd and Mia, eyes sweeping for the Kade twins, voice a growl of warning.

  Gavin snapped his gaze to Mia and growled at her, tone like an angry bear. "Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

  But what Mia didn't know—what no one knew—was that Gavin had seen the Kade twins coming. And she had to be gone before they saw her, because those boys had lost everything, and the person they fully held responsible was standing right there. He didn't know what they would do, but it wouldn't be good.

  Mia nodded, her face still an unfeeling mask that betrayed none of the turmoil within. She turned on her heel and walked away, carefully skirting around the crowds of gawking people, their eyes burning into her back like accusatory embers. Their stares and whispers washed over her, barely registering as she retreated into the solitude of her own mind, seeking the comfort of Asrell's familiar presence.