We ditched the Porsche in a dense cluster of trees a mile from the marina.
"Leave the gun," Cassian ordered, wiping his prints from the steering wheel with the hem of his shirt. "If we get stopped, we're just a couple on vacation. Armed couples don't look like tourists."
I hesitated, looking at the heavy Glock in my hand. It felt like a lifeline now. Putting it down felt like undressing. But I nodded, tucking it under the seat.
We walked the last mile. I tried to keep my face neutral, but every step was agony. I had kicked off my heels during the jump, and running barefoot through the garage and the woods had shredded the soles of my feet.
Cassian noticed my limp immediately. He didn't ask. He just stopped, swept me up into his arms again, and kept walking.
"I can walk," I protested weaky, my head resting on his shoulder.
"You've done enough for one day," he grunted, his eyes scanning the perimeter. "Rest."
We reached the docks. It was a private marina, filled with yachts that cost more than small countries. Security was light—rich people didn't expect to be robbed in broad daylight.
Cassian bypassed the mega-yachts. He headed for a sleek, dark blue speedboat moored at the end of a pier. The Midnight Runner.
"That one," he decided. "Fast. Low profile."
He set me down on the teak deck of the boat. "Keep watch. If you see anyone, cough."
I sat on the white leather bench, shivering despite the heat. My adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, shaking nausea. I shot at a woman. I almost killed someone.
Cassian worked with terrifying efficiency. He picked the lock on the ignition panel with a pocketknife, stripped two wires, and sparked them.
The twin engines roared to life. A deep, guttural purr.
"Cast off!" he shouted over the noise.
I scrambled to the back, untying the heavy rope from the cleat. I threw it onto the dock.
Cassian gunned the throttle. The boat surged forward, the nose lifting out of the water. We shot out of the harbor, leaving a white wake of foam and stolen luxury behind us.
We didn't speak for an hour.
Cassian drove like a demon, cutting through the waves, putting miles of ocean between us and the island. The wind whipped my hair into a frenzy, stinging my eyes.
Finally, when the island was nothing but a smudge on the horizon, he cut the engines.
The silence that followed was heavy. The boat bobbed gently in the open water. The sun was high and cruel.
Cassian turned away from the wheel. He looked exhausted. His tuxedo shirt was torn, stained with grease and sweat. His hair was windblown.
He looked at me. Really looked at me.
He saw the emerald dress, ruined and ripped. He saw the glass dust in my hair. And he saw the bloody footprints on the pristine white deck.
His face crumbled.
"Elena," he breathed.
He walked over to where I was huddled on the bench. He knelt before me—Cassian Vance, the Underboss, on his knees.
"Let me see," he said, his voice rough.
He gently took my ankle, lifting my foot onto his knee. He sucked in a breath when he saw the damage. The soles were raw, cut by glass and asphalt.
"I didn't feel it," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I was running so fast."
"I have a first aid kit below deck," he said quietly.
He retrieved it. He poured bottled water over my feet to wash away the salt and grit. I hissed in pain, gripping the leather seat.
"I know," he murmured, his hands surprisingly gentle for a man who killed for a living. "I know it hurts. I've got you."
He cleaned the cuts with antiseptic. Every touch was a silent apology. He wrapped my feet in gauze, his movements precise and careful.
When he was done, he didn't let go of my ankle. He stayed there, kneeling, his head bowed.
"I should never have taken you to that island," he said to the floor. "I put a target on your back."
"You saved me," I said.
"You saved us," he corrected, looking up. "You pulled the trigger, Elena. You crossed a line today that you can never uncross. You have blood on your hands now."
"Does it make you love me less?" I asked, the fear returning. "Now that I'm not innocent?"
Cassian laughed—a dark, broken sound. He leaned up, sliding his hands up my calves to rest on my knees. The heat of his palms burned through the silk of the dress.
"Love you less?" he repeated, his eyes burning with intensity. "Elena, watching you fight for us... watching you become this..."
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee. A jolt of electricity shot straight to my core.
"It made me realize that you were never the damsel," he whispered against my skin. "You are the queen. And I am just the soldier holding the line."
My breath hitched. "Where do we go now, soldier?"
He stood up, towering over me, blocking out the sun.
"We go to ground," he said, pulling me up into a standing hug, being careful of my feet. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. "I have a safe house. Off the grid. No internet. No cell service. Just us."
He pulled back, his hand finding the USB drive that was still tucked into the bodice of my dress. He pulled it out, holding the black plastic up to the light.
"And this," he said darkly. "Once we are safe, we open the rest of the files. We find out exactly what your father is planning."
"And then?"
Cassian looked at the horizon, toward the mainland.
"And then," he said, "we go back. And we take his crown."