The warehouse smelled of rust, oil, and the kind of damp rot that never left even after decades of being scrubbed clean. The air was heavy, stale, as though it remembered every cry that had ever bled into its walls.
Dominic's stride was steady. His hand was firm around Celeste's. She could feel the tension coiled in him.
She clung to his warmth, because the rest of the place was cold.
Ronan stood a few feet ahead. His frame was angled toward them. His expression was the same disgusted mask he always wore towards her.
His stance was casual, with his hands shoved into his pockets. Celeste knew enough now to recognize that beneath his stillness was a blade of attention, sharp and ready.
Around him stood a few of Dominic's men. Their shoulders were squared, their expressions were blank, with the kind of blank that only came after seeing too much blood and not enough sleep.
Celeste's gaze didn't stop on them.
It stopped at the center.
The sight punched the air from her lungs.
