Zayne’s POV
I see her car before I see her. The damage hits me first.
The rear window is gone—completely shattered, jagged edges reflecting the harsh sunlight like teeth. Bullet holes pepper the side panel, ugly and unmistakable, the metal warped inward as if it had tried and failed to protect her. The side mirror is missing. The trunk is dented so deep it looks like it took a fist from God.
My chest caves in.
I slam the brakes so hard the car jerks to a stop behind her, tires screeching as I throw it into park and shove the door open.
I don’t even remember getting out. I’m running.
“Isla—!”
My voice cracks before I reach her.
She’s still in the driver’s seat, hands locked around the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. Her shoulders are shaking violently. Her head is
