EMBER’S POV

I drive.

It’s a small thing, maybe nothing to anyone watching, but my hands on the steering wheel feel like reclamation.

For weeks, other people have driven me places. Knox carrying me through hallways, Nathaniel behind the wheel of getaway cars, Rafael’s guards hauling me through forests.

I’ve been a passenger in every sense of the word, moved from location to location by men who decided where I needed to be and when I needed to be there.

Today I drive.

The Alaskan highway stretches flat and white and endless ahead of us, and Queenie is in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap and...