She knew him.
Had met him — 'met' was a generous characterization for something that had been a collision and a rescue and an event she'd been processing in the background of her mind for days.
Had thought about the purple of his eyes more times than was sensible.
Had watched the kissing CD he sent last day with a smile emoji with her hands pressed over her mouth and her knees pulled to her chest and felt something complicated she hadn't sorted out.
And he was here.
At Alexander Dalton's funeral.
With Victor Dalton six inches to her left.
Victor, who had guards.
Elena could count three of them at the garden perimeter from where she was standing, which meant there were more she couldn't count. Victor, who had the specific relationship with violence that men of his position had when they'd grown up watching it wielded as a tool.
Raven looked up.
Found her immediately. Like he'd known exactly where to look.
He smiled.
