Then it was me running from the house, clutching my backpack and hurtling straight into Nate’s head of security (I’d always got on with Brian, we’d shared the odd cup of tea at the house. He reminded me of my dad); registering the shock in his faded blue eyes as he took in my beaten face and blood-splattered shirt; my stomach turning over as he ushered me outside to his car and asked me whether the blood on my hands was mine. “No,” I’d replied, my voice hoarse from shouting. “Not mine.” He’d smiled then. A wide, deeply satisfied, slightly scary smile. “Good,” he’d said in a fierce tone, his
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we like a supportive, feral for retribution head of security 🫡 need another book with Bri, he seems like he'd need his own backstory
