Chapter 16 · The Woman Beyond the Recording

The gun clicked empty again.

Clean Ian stood across the dead train car with the barrel aimed at Nora’s chest. His coat was dry. His face was clean. Not one mark on him, even though the last three minutes had involved a bombing, a gunfight, and me driving a metal spike through his throat.

My Ian had blood on his collar.

This one didn’t even have dust on his shoes.

The black box jumped in my hands.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“Put it down,” Clean Ian said.

His voice was Ian’s voice. Soft. Patient. The voice that used to talk me through panic attacks while I sat on the bathroom floor with my fingernails dug into my palms.

It almost worked.

Then the box kicked again, and I remembered his mouth against mine.

Not a dream. Not a fabricated emotional imprint. His hand under my jacket. My fingers in his hair. The stupid little sound he made when I bit his lower lip.

I had loved him.

I had loved him so hard I’d ordered the city to cut the love out of me.

That memory hurt worse than the bullet hole under my ribs.

“Seren.” Ian’s hand caught my elbow.