Adrian's POV
Alexiou stood in the doorway, his bronze skin gleaming under the warehouse's flickering lights. His curly hair was wilder than I remembered, falling across his forehead in messy coils. He looked older. Harder. The boy who used to laugh at blood had become a man who craved it.
And pressed against Geneviève's temple was a gun.
Her lilac eyes were wide, but she wasn't crying. She wasn't begging. She was glaring at Alexiou like she wanted to tear his throat out with her teeth.
That was my Geneviève.
"Let her go," I said. My voice sounded calm. I didn't feel calm.
Alexiou tilted his head, that familiar mocking smile playing on his lips. "Or what? You'll shoot me? You're not even carrying, Adrian. I can see it in the way you're standing. Shoulders too square. Hands too empty." He clicked his tongue. "You're so predictable."
Predictable.
The word stung more than it should have.
