Isla
Zayne has been staring at me for the past ten minutes.
Not the normal kind of staring he does when he’s amused or when he’s in that distant I’m-not-even-really-listening mood.
No, this stare is different.
It’s intentional. Heavy. Focused. Like he’s peeling back my skin layer by layer and trying to see what’s underneath.
And it’s beginning to prickle the back of my neck.
I keep pretending to look out the window as the plane makes its slow descent, but the truth is—I can feel him. His gaze is a physical thing. A hand. A grip. A question. And the more I feel it, the tighter my ribs become.
The last thing I want is dragging Zayne into the middle of my mess with Silas.
I don’t even want to get on Silas’s nerve, God knows I’ve done that enough already.
I just want him out of my lif
