Shane glanced back at her in the rear-view mirror whenever he dared take his eyes off of the road. His jawline was continuously yanked taught with each fleeting glance. Each tick of his jaw only further enhanced the need to grip the steering wheel in such a way that his knuckles turned white.

Somehow, his mind couldn't quite fathom who in the hell would hurt such an angelic creature. How could they be so blind as to not realize that by plucking the one pure white feather from the world all of the other feathers are doomed to fade to stone?

There was a fallen angel sprawled across the dark leather of his backseats, and for what? For what? Blame? Undignified hatred? Unjustified detest? Unrequited retribution? 

Well, damn them.

Damn them all to hell.

They were all spawns of Satan himself if they thought their hands were blessed enough to reach within a meter of her skin.

Damn him.

Damn him.

Damn the Lost Boy who was unable to transform into the hero she needed him to be.

Damn him for not being able to do anything else but glance at her in the rear-view mirror.