So when he started yelling, Elain’s patience was already shredded thin. There was simply no more good will left. She’d picked up a heavy crystal vace and smashed it over the back of his head. Graysen had pitched forward, forehead slamming against the sharp edge of their coffee table, rendering him dead before he ever connected with their hardwood.
She’d intended to turn herself in. That was the reasonable thing to do. Nesta was a lawyer, Feyre was married to old money—she figured she could spend a decade or so behind bars, even if orange did wash her out.
The world worked in mysterious ways. As Elain was picking up her phone, 911 already dialed, her phone dinged a warning.
Hurricane Elaine scheduled to make landfall on…
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
Elain burst out laughing. Hurricane Elaine? Really? Surely it was some cosmic joke and yet…
