The plan was set. We would move at dusk, under the cover of darkness, travelling through the back roads to reach Dr Vance's facility. Lyra had mapped out three possible routes, each with its own risks and contingencies. She was methodical, precise, utterly in control.
I hated her for it.
Not because she was competent. Not because she was helping us. But because of the way she looked at Riven. The way her hand brushed against his when she handed him a weapon. The way she laughed at something he said, low and intimate, like they shared a secret I wasn't part of.
I told myself I was being paranoid. That the stress was getting to me, that Riven had made it clear we were a truce, not a reconciliation. He hadn't forgiven me. He might never forgive me.
But that didn't stop the jealousy from curdling in my chest like spoiled milk.
