I’ve watched men die for a thousand years. I’ve never once wanted one to live.
Then he walked out of a burning truck and looked straight at me — and no one has ever looked straight at me.
Ivar Boone shouldn’t have survived eleven wrecks. He shouldn’t be able to see me. And he definitely shouldn’t be bringing me coffee at four in the morning on the shoulder of a highway where I’ve watched a hundred people take their last breath.
I know exactly how many weeks he has left. I’m forbidden to tell him.
So I’m going to spend them with him instead. Every diner, every rooftop, every impossible hour under a sky that’s already made up its mind.
I was built to choose who dies.
Nobody warned me what happens when I choose one to keep — or what I’d have to put my name to in order to do it.
