The adrenaline that had carried us off the helipad began to bleed away, leaving behind a cold, shaking exhaustion.
We had been flying north for an hour. The city lights had long since faded, replaced by the endless, inky blackness of the forest canopy below. The pilot—a terrified man named Gary—flew with a gun pressed to the back of his seat by Rook.
I sat on the metal floor of the chopper, my white gown pooled around me like a wilted flower. It was stained with dirt, grease, and the blood of the people we had fought.
Cassian sat opposite me. He was leaning his head back against the fuselage, eyes closed. His chest was bare, wrapped only in the dirty bandages from the sea cave, which were now seeping fresh red. He looked like a fallen angel—beautiful, broken, and lethal.
"Fuel," Cassian said, his eyes snapping open. He didn't shout, but his voice cut through the rotor noise.
"We're at fifteen percent, sir," the pilot squeaked.
"Set it down," Cassian ordered.
