Instinct takes me. I don’t think. I move.
My hand dives for his side. His holster. His gun. It’s heavy in my grip, almost drags me down. But I raise it. My arms shake, but I fire anyway.
The shot rips the air apart.
Evan jerks back. A hole blooms dark in his chest. His face twists—not pain, not anger. Just… disappointment. Then the light drains from his eyes. His body collapses into the dark, vanishing like smoke.
My chest heaves. My hands are shaking, gun slipping from my fingers.
Anton turns, grabs my shoulders, steadying me. His mouth moves. He’s saying something, but the sound is muffled, far away.
Then I hear it.
Clear. Right against my ear.
“Mary.”
I freeze. His lips didn’t move that time.
“Mary,” the voice says again.
I blink, and suddenly the warehouse, the asphalt, Evan—everything blurs, smears into nothing.
I’m back in the dark.
And when my eyes snap open—
Anton is right there.
Sitting at the edge of the bed. Watching me.
I jolt up so fast my lungs seize. I’m gasping, clawing at the sheets like they’ll hold me steady. My skin’s soaked, hair plastered to my temples, and tears just won’t stop coming.
He doesn’t move. Just sits there, dim light cutting shadows across his face, as steady as if he’s been here for hours.
“It’s just a nightmare,” Anton says. His voice is low, even, like he’s trying not to spook me further.
Except that’s the problem. His voice feels like the only thing keeping me tethered.
I drag in another breath, sharp and ragged, and stare at him. The dark shirt clings to his chest, half-unbuttoned, and there’s a shadow blooming across his ribs—dark, ugly, spreading under the fabric. His jacket’s gone. His holster’s still strapped to his side, like he hasn’t stopped moving all night.
My stomach twists. “You— What—?” My throat locks. I have to swallow before I get the words out. “Am… Am I still dreaming?”
Before he can answer, Gordo makes his own decision. He launches off the bed, tail high, and bolts straight out of the room like he’s got better things to do than witness my breakdown.
“Guess not,” I mutter, wiping at my face with the heel of my palm. “Even Gordo doesn’t buy it.”
Anton’s gaze flicks toward the door Gordo vanished through, then back to me. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften, but somethingin his eyes tightens. Like he doesn’t know what to do with me like this.
I notice the way he’s holding himself. Too stiff. His arm braced slightly against his side. That shadow under his shirt isn’t just shadow.
I rub at my eyes, trying to swipe away the leftover tears, and when I lower my hand, I see it—the faint bruise along his cheekbone. Darker in the dim light, the kind of mark that doesn’t come from nothing.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach up. Slow. Careful. Expecting him to pull back, to bark at me for daring. But he doesn’t. He stays still. Lets me cup his face. His skin is warm under my palm, rough with stubble.
My heart kicks hard enough that I feel it in my throat. “You’re hurt.”
He doesn’t answer. The lamp throws just enough glow that his eyes catch it, and for one second, it’s like they flash—bright, unreadable, dangerous. Heat rolls off him, not fever-warm but alive, like he’s been carrying fire under his skin. His gaze drops, quick and sharp, to my mouth.
