I looked over at him. “What do you mean, you don’t live there anymore?”
His jaw worked beneath the passing wash of streetlights, a hard, rhythmic clench and release. His knuckles were wrapped in cheap first-aid gauze already spotted with rusty red blooms, his hoodie bunched in his lap because there was blood on the sleeve, and one of the ice packs Hannah had shoved at him sat against his ribs instead of his face because Easton Wade apparently prioritized internal damage over visible evidence. Dried blood marked the corner of his mouth like a warning, a dark, flaking comma, and the bruise blooming near his cheekbone had turned mean beneath the shifting light.
“The sentence was pretty clear, Clarke.”
I hated my last name in his mouth. Hated it in a way that made my whole body heat, a flush crawling up my neck, because he knew exactly what he was doing with it.
No Aura. No East. No room for anything that used to happen in the dark between us when he was mine for a few hours.
It was a weapon now, and he wielded it with brutal precision.
“When did you move?”
“A while ago.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“That’s tragic.”
I hit the blinker too hard, the click-clack echoing through the tense silence, and kept driving past the turn. “Where am I taking you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does when I’m the one driving.”
His eyes cut toward me, pale and glacial in the dim light. “I only agreed to this because Ryan looked two seconds from dragging me to his place and Cade had that rich-man hostage face on.”
“Rich-man hostage face?”
“The one where he pretends something is a suggestion while already having a room prepared, a doctor on call, and enough emotional blackmail to make leaving feel rude.”
Despite everything, my mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Easton saw it, and his face remained cold. “Don’t look pleased. I wasn’t choosing your car. I was avoiding another babysitting sleepover where everyone stares at me like I might chew through drywall if left unattended.”
“You might.”
“Probably.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
“Don’t start applauding yet, Clarke. I’m still bleeding on your seat.”
“Address, Easton.”
His eyes sharpened. “Do not use my name like you get to order me around.”
“Then stop acting like a man who needs handling.”
He shifted in the seat, slow and controlled, a predator uncoiling, but the air inside the car snapped tight anyway, charged and dangerous. The movement made him wince before he swallowed it, one hand pressing harder against the ice pack over his ribs.
I caught it.
He caught me catching it, and his mouth flattened.
“You cracked a rib?” I asked.
