I stood in the emptying corridor and watched them disappear through the exit doors, his hand on the small of her back, her stuffed animal still clutched to her chest, and I felt nothing. Not anger. Not hurt. Nothing. The nothing was worse than anything, because it meant the part of me that could be wounded by Dominic Sloane had finally died, and I hadn't even noticed the moment of its passing.
Five minutes later, the alarm was cleared. A false alarm.
Dominic returned to where we had been standing, looking around. His eyes scanned the area, but I was nowhere in sight.
Two hours later, I was at the train station, my suitcase in hand, waiting for my departure.
The station was a transitional space, neutral ground at the edge of no one's territory, filled with the anonymous movement of people whose lives didn't revolve around blood oaths and family allegiance. I sat on a metal bench with my suitcase between my knees and watched the departure board flicker.
My phone kept buzzing nonstop. Dominic's name flashed on the screen again and again, but I didn't bother answering. Instead, I set my phone to silent.
Right before boarding the train, I sent him one final message: We're done.