Chapter 8 · What He Does After Dark

I woke up on a couch that smelled like cigarettes and something metallic I didn't want to name.

Not my couch. Not my apartment.

I sat up too fast and my head spun. The room came into focus slow—peeling wallpaper, a single lamp throwing yellow light across a coffee table covered in takeout containers and a stack of manila folders. The windows were covered with blackout curtains. No idea what time it was.

Ethan was across the room, leaning against the kitchen counter with his phone pressed to his ear. His back was to me but his shoulders were tight. He was talking low and fast.

"I don't care what protocol says. I'm not bringing her in."

A pause.

"Then send someone. See how that goes."

He hung up. Didn't turn around.

I cleared my throat. "Where are we?"

"Safe house." He still didn't look at me. "For now."

"Whose?"

"Mine. Technically the Court's. They don't know about it."

I stood up. My legs felt like jelly but I made it to the counter. "How long was I out?"

"Four hours."

Four hours. It was past midnight then. Maybe later. The silver veins on my hand were gone.