They all look like glittering middle fingers raised against the darkening sky. I still don’t know who they’re telling to go f**k themselves. Me? Harold? Aleksei? Fate? Reason?
My burner phone sits in the cupholder. Harold sent coordinates to a parking garage in the West Loop. Neutral ground, supposedly safe. A lot hinges on the word “supposedly.” But what choice do I have?
Zeke fills the silence with nervous chatter. “Yas made me promise to text her every fifteen minutes,” he says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “She’s convinced we’re walking into a trap.”
“Yeah, well, she’s also convinced I’m going to propose within the year, so her judgment might be compromised.”
I grunt something noncommittal, but I’m barely listening. My mind keeps drifting back to Eliana in my bed. Th
