88

Camila

The sun is setting when he leaves. Our goodbye is brief, too brief, both of us lingering by the front door as he checks his guns under his jacket. He’s counting bullets. Dutifully making sure the safety is on and that his weapons are where he wants them in easy reach. He flips them out multiple times, testing his speed before holstering again. Meticulous to his core.

Asher is going to save my mother. Last time he tried, he came back injured.

This time he could come back in a casket.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing his wrist on impulse. He’s cracked the door, letting crisp air that warns of a winter storm creep inside the house. It feels like a bad omen. I grip him tighter. “Take Mila.”

He shakes his head patiently, like he’s already explained why he can’t. “She’s still recovering.”

“At least take some backup?—”

“I told you, the fewer people I bring, the better.” His eyes grow big and gentle. “Camila, I know you’re nervous. But this is the best way to do this.”

The best way would be to