Chapter Sixty Eight

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A week later . . .

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Shane stood on his balcony, staring down at where Shamira sat in her wheelchair, overlooking . . . nothing. This is what she had been doing since she had agreed not to kill herself, at least not as long as she was linked to Clara anyway. She barely spoke to anyone, though there was always at least one or two members of the house nearby in case she needed to. Even his field agents had taken turns coming back up to Atlanta for a few hours to check in on her, though none had any luck getting through to her.

Banshee's return had been particularly painful to watch. Shane knew that his eldest child held herself responsible for Shamira's injuries, and it hurt her to feel that she had failed. Banshee and Shamira had sat next to each other, not saying a word. The assassin had wrung her hands so hard that she had broken one of her own fingers, a sure sign that she was distressed. They ha