VANESSA BELMONT JANG
My hands were shaking.
I clenched them into fists, nails biting into my palms, and forced a smirk as I leaned against Nathan in the back of the SUV.
My bare feet left muddy streaks on the leather seats, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Not when my pulse was still jackhammering from avoiding gunfire, jumping into the river, the running for our lives part of this disaster.
Mrs. King—Ollie's terrifying mother—flicked a glance at me in the rearview mirror, her lips pursed. "Vanessa," she said, voice crisp, "why are you only in a man's button-up shirt?"
I looked down at myself. Nathan's borrowed dress shirt was soaked through, clinging in ways that would've been sexy if I weren't two seconds from hyperventilating. I forced a laugh. "Honeymoon emergency."
Nathan's arm tightened around me, his thumb brushing my shoulder in slow, grounding circles. His voice was low, just for me. "Breathe."
I hadn't even realized I wasn't.
