Claire was quiet.
Too quiet.
She sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her hands clenched in her lap, her knuckles white. Her gaze was fixed on the road ahead, but I knew she wasn't seeing it.
She was lost in thought, turning something over in her mind—something that terrified me. Her breath came in slow, controlled inhales, like she was fighting to keep herself from unraveling. Every so often, her fingers would twitch, as if she were imagining wrapping them around Natalya's throat.
Yelena drove in silence, her grip on the wheel so tight her knuckles were bone-white. She didn't speak, didn't glance back at me, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched every time her eyes flicked toward Claire. The car hummed beneath us, the engine a low, steady growl as we cut through the empty streets, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon and shadow.
