Gianna inhaled sharply in the hallway, her guards coming up, spine stiffening, when that infuriating scent tickled her nostrils—the one she would have recognized blind, in a crowd, in a burning room.
It curled around her senses like an unwanted memory, unwelcome. Why had he followed her here? Why now, of all moments, when her chest was already tight with too many truths?
She stopped at the base of the stairs, one hand brushing the banister as if to steady herself, and turned. Her eyes hardened instantly as they found Zane standing there.
He possibly couldn't meet her eyes, because his head was lowered, shoulders slumped. His hands hung limp by his sides, fingers flexing once, then stilling, as if he didn't know what to do with them.
What was this? A performance? If he was here to apologize, he shouldn't bother his lips and self—she wasn't in need of it, didn't want it, didn't have space for it.
"What do you want?" Her voice came out harsh, clipped.
