Zara
“So,” Locke says. “You’re Zara Callahan again, are you?”
My name sounds different in his mouth, like it’s something worth saying.
I try to answer, but breathing is suddenly difficult, every inhale catching against the pain that pulses deep and sharp where my body is still healing. I press one hand against my stomach without thinking.
His gaze drops, and something in his face changes.
“Where?” he asks.
“My stomach,” I manage, the words thin.
He crouches in front of me, not too close, not crowding, his hands resting loosely on his knees as his eyes move over my face in a way that feels careful rather than invasive.
“Did Knox do this to you?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard, not because of the assumption, but because of the anger underneath it, which is cold and contr
