The drive back to the Reed fortress was a masterclass in psychological torture.
The rain lashed against the windows of the SUV, turning the bright lights of San Francisco into smeared, neon streaks of color. Beside me, Asher was a wall of cold, silent fury. He didn't look at me, but I could feel the heat radiating from him—a sharp contrast to the chilled air of the car.
Lover.
The word hung in the air between us like a ghost. I leaned my head against the cool leather of the seat, watching the wipers sweep away the rain. I could have told him the truth—that the only "lover" I had held in the last five years was my work and our son. But why should I give him that peace of mind? He had stolen my life; the least I could do was let him burn in the fires of his own jealousy.
"You're quiet," Asher said, his voice cutting through the hum of the tires on the wet pavement.
