The North Pier was a tomb of silence, broken only by the low thrum of the idling engine and the briny scent of the sea air mingling with the acrid tang of gunpowder. Atop the car's warm hood, Alaric had just finished laying claim to Anna with an intensity that bordered on ruinous. Their breath hitched in sync under the bruised, starless Avernon sky.
Alaric brushed the sweat-dampened hair from Anna's forehead, his gaze one of absolute, terrifying possession. "I told you, Anna. You can never escape me. Fate itself wouldn't dare tear us apart."
Anna leaned into his chest, her heart still hammering a frantic rhythm. But as the intoxicating haze of passion began to clear, something caught her eye. In the distance, Aris—Alaric's most trusted shadow—was standing near the water's edge, murmuring into a satellite phone. Aris, whose face was usually an unreadable mask, looked taut with tension, his fingers white-knuckled around a faded, pale blue envelope.
