“What’s wrong, Killian?” I absently hear a car pull up behind me. Turning around, a black SUV skids up beside me and the doors swing open. “Get home. We need to talk.” “I’m sorry for stealing your truck, okay? I just have to see her.” “Saskia, I swear to fucking God, get home now. I don’t give a fuck about my truck. Fucking get home.” My mouth opens just as an older man in an immaculate suit steps out of the black SUV. “I’ve—” “—Drop the phone, Saskia,” the man orders, and I watch as he unbuttons his jacket and fluffs it up. His hair is short, greying on the sides, and his neck is covered in
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