She sat uneasily in the passenger seat, more than just uneasy, as if thousands of ants were crawling inside her body.
The rain outside continued to fall; it was the early hours, and the streets were almost devoid of pedestrians, with only a few cars driving through the curtain of rain.
The windshield wipers kept swiping, but the rain soon covered the window again.
The sound of the rain became ambiguous in Jasmine Yale's ears.
"I feel awful... so awful..." She was about to cry, clutching the seatbelt tightly.
Sylvan Cheney turned to glance at her, her flushed face had yet to fade, like a ripe peach, with a few crystalline droplets hanging from her long eyelashes, and a hazy desire enveloping her eyes.
She wasn't the only one feeling terrible.
In the darkness, Sylvan Cheney pressed his thin lips tightly together, his sharp eyes looking out the window as he drove steadily.
