LEONARDO ANNISON
My hands were steady when they needed to be. That was the one thing I could always count on—no matter how much my insides twisted, no matter how loud the panic screamed in my head, my body obeyed. My fingers didn't shake when I pulled a trigger. My voice didn't waver when I gave orders.
Right now, though?
I wanted to break something.
Ollie stood in the center of the warehouse, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of flickering overhead lights, looking like the world's most infuriating sacrifice. His arms were crossed, his chin tilted up in that way he did when he was trying to pretend he wasn't terrified.
And I hated it.
Phillip King's smirk made my teeth grind. He had Ollie's eyes—same shape, same color—but where Ollie's were warm, alive, human, this man's gaze was dead. Like staring into the barrel of a loaded gun.
"You always were sentimental," Phillip said, circling Ollie like a vulture. "Did you really think your mother would let you walk out of here?"
