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When a cold nose is pressed to my cheek, I smile. “Hey, Bullet.” Bullet whines softly and climbs onto the bed, snuggling into me. I hold onto him, burying my face in his fur, and when I next wake up, he’s snuggled in my arms, snoring.

And for the first time in God knows how long, I pull off the sleeping mask.

My head still hurts, but I think I took pain relief not too long ago, so I’m able to open my eyes fully and take in my surroundings. The room is lit by a single floor lamp in the corner, the light a muted amber. The room itself is pretty. I’m in a four-poster bed, bundled up in covers. A corner bookcase is stacked with reading material, and in front of it is a heavily stuffed chair with a footstool, a blanket folded over it. Balcony doors are framed by duck-egg blue drapes, the tassels gold.

“Where are we, Bullet?” I ask, sitting up. My head spins, so I wait a few seconds before standing.

I’m in soft, blush pink, matching pajamas, and pink slippers are sitting neatly by the double doors.

What do I remember?

The apartment.

Yale …

“I love you, too.”

Where’s Yale? Xavier?

Oh God.

Zayden.

A high-pitched noise sounds in my right ear, and I groan, pressing my hand to it gently. A few seconds pass and it eases, but I definitely have a severe concussion.

“One step at a time,” I whisper to Bullet, stroking his head before I stand. I shuffle over to the other door, pushing it open to a bathroom that matches the bedroom. It’s clearly old but maintained well, the faucets squeaking gently when I turn them. The water heats quickly, and I wash my face, finding supplies to brush my hair and teeth.

“Plenty of years and sex.”

A soft laugh. “Shut up.”

I look in the mirror. A bruise is purpling under my eye, and another is at my temple, along with a neatly stitched cut.

“A safe house,” I whisper. “This must be another safe house, right?”

Bullet sits at the door, tail wagging.

Yes. Whatever happened, we must be at another property.

“Come on, let’s go find your daddies,” I say, leaving the bathroom with more confidence. I step into the slippers and open one of the doors. I’m greeted by a large, grand hallway, the carpets rich reds and golds, the ceilings high and curved. Soft piano music drifts over to me, and I follow the sound until I find a set of wide stairs that leads to a bottom floor. Bullet is on my heels, claws tapping against the polished floors as we continue to follow the music.

“Yale?” I call out quietly, and pause at a large, open archway that leads into a sitting room, a grand piano set against the far wall.

The man playing turns.

Ryker.

He stands quickly. “Rose, you should be resting.” He approaches, but I’m swallowed by memories of his voice on the phone and what followed.

Heat. Pain. The world exploding. Whispered promises.

My brain feels like it swells against my skull, and I whimper, closing my eyes as I step back, losing my footing. Someone catches me, cradling me in their arms, whispering, whispering, whispering⁠—

“I’m here, Rose. I’m here.” Tears burn my eyes, because I don’t understand. The year, the place, the people … Bullet is here, and he’s from now, but the nickname, the man— “I’m sorry,” Ryker whispers. “I should’ve told you, but I was scared.”

I lift my head, my eyes meeting his.

Eyes I know.