Page 118 of Gunnar

I slide across the seats and follow him out.

Gunnar shuts the door behind him.

I stay close at his side.

Torin appears on my other side, rifle up.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then movement—off to the left.

A figure steps out from the trees.

Orson.

He walks toward us, hands empty, shoulders loose.

His gaze flickers from Gunnar, to me, then back again.

Adrenaline prickles in my chest.

“Orson,” Gunnar says.

Orson huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You came.”

Gunnar doesn’t move. “What have you done?”

Orson shrugs, too quick, too careless. “Just what I had to do.”

His voice sounds off.

A second shape moves in the trees behind him.

Then another.

They step out slowly. Dark clothing, weapons visible now that they’re in the open.

Orson keeps his eyes on Gunnar. “They just want to talk.”

They spread out in an arc, weapons drawn.

And, it’s him.

The broken line of his nose. The scar down the right side of his face.

For a second I’m back there—the garage, the sound of the shot, the way he looked at me like he already knew me.

My knees buckle.

It’s like the ground drops out from under me.

Then his gaze fixes on mine—those cold blue eyes—and a small smile tugs at his lips.

He thinks I’m his. He thinks he owns me.

And suddenly, I’m mad. I take a step forward.

Alexandria?