Draven's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel which was the first sign this trip was going to be a disaster.
The second sign was how he'd been silent for forty-five minutes straight, not even the clinical observations he usually offered, just tense quiet that bled through our bond like anxiety wrapped in iron control.
I wanted to ask if he was okay but the answer was obviously no and pointing that out seemed cruel, so I just sat in the passenger seat watching trees blur past and trying not to focus on how my stomach was attempting to stage a revolt.
Vampire covens didn't exactly welcome hybrids with open arms—something about our blood being offensive to their senses or our existence being an affront to nature or some bullshit I'd stopped trying to understand—and walking into one without backup felt like the kind of stupid decision that would get me killed.
