The next morning, I woke to the low murmur of Anthony's voice. He was on the phone, his tone calm, almost too calm. When he noticed me come into the living room, he turned slightly and offered a smile. But even that smile couldn't hide it—something had shifted.
Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was me.
I couldn't shake off what I'd heard last night... or the image of that man's scratched-up face. The memory kept me tossing and turning until dawn, the sheets tangled around me like chains.
Was it even worth it? Staying in this world that felt more dangerous by the second? Shouldn't I be packing, running, doing something—anything—before danger found me first?
I sank onto the white couch, its leather cold beneath my skin, and stared out the glass window. Anthony stood a few feet away, phone pressed to his ear, his back to me.
My gaze dropped—completely uninvited—to where his black jeans hugged him just right. My heart gave a ridiculous little thump. Get a grip.
