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"Get some sleep," he says roughly. "We'll be in Tallahassee in eight hours."

He closes his eyes and turns his head away. Conversation over.

But I saw it.

The crack in his armor.

The war between what he wants and what he thinks he's allowed to have.

I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, but I don't sleep.

I think about monsters.

I think about men who kill without blinking and then touch you like you're made of glass.

I think about the way he saidthat was a mistakewhen we both know he didn't mean it.

The plane carries us west, toward Florida, toward whatever comes next.

And somewhere over the Atlantic, I make a decision.

RJ might be determined to keep his walls up.

But I've never been very good at following orders.

And I have eight hours to figure out how to tear them down.

CHAPTER THREE

RJ

Florida hits me like a wall the moment we step off the plane.

The heat. The humidity. The thick, wet air that wraps around you like a fist and squeezes.

Ireland is damp, sure, but it's a cold damp—crisp and biting, the kind that wakes you up.

This is something else entirely.

This is breathing through a wet towel while standing in an oven.

Jaysus. How do people live here?

Dalla steps onto the tarmac beside me, and I watch her shoulders relax for the first time since Dublin.

She tips her face toward the sun—brutal, blinding sun, nothing like the watery gray we left behind—and takes a deep breath.

"Home," she murmurs.

Not quite.

We're still an hour from Tallahassee, still have to get to whatever secure location the Mackenzies have arranged.

But I understand what she means.

American soil. Familiar territory. Away from the Krajncs and their motives.

She thinks she's safer here.