Amon kept his eyes fixed on the wet sidewalk in front of him. He focused on the rain, on the cars driving past, not on the girl ….
Her hair was wet. Her clothes were damp and clinging to her skin. The Pilgrim dress, harsh and old-world and proper was sticking to that delicate, girlish frame.
Profane.
Blaspheme.
Nothing would ever be the same now. Not after he had put his gun down, after he had refused his order to kill her. Not after he promised to stay with her, guard her, guard against her ….
He couldn't keep pretending.