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Run, Jax.

I flatten my back to the wall. Undecided. Adrenaline and anxiety beat through my blood in alternating waves.

Leave now—easily outmaneuver him.

Safe.

Lose Nick. Lose whatever he’s up to.

Stay—get answers.

Get answers, and let Silverback get too close. In which case, I’m fucked ’cause I am not a punchy guy.

Fuck.

Stay. Run.

I could slip into the room before Nick turns. He won’t see me, Silverback won’t see me. I could hide out in the shadows where I’m most at home, and . . . What, gloat like a cartoon villain? No way.

Footsteps thud up the stairs.

My heart thuds in my chest.

I turn back to the door as Nick slides his hand into his pocket, obscuring the item from the nightstand.

Dammit! I missed it!

Clump-tick. My brain counts down the seconds in time to the feet on the stairs—clump-tick, clump-tick, clump-tick.

Stay or go?

Whatever Nick took, it was in that nightstand.

Not locked.

Not in a vault.

Not guarded by a camera.

Just . . . set into the bedside table like ChapStick or sleeping pills or lube.

The fuck?

What the fucking hell am I missing?

Clump-tick.

StayorgoStayorgo—

The thud of footsteps mark the final feet of Silverback’s ascent. I’ve got seconds to make a decision.

Safety or answers. Run or know. Lose myself to the darkness—or move in for a grab?

Nick steps back from the nightstand. Any second, he’s gonna turn, head for the door, and I’ll be pinned between him and Silverback.

Fat chance I’m letting that happen.

Think, Jax.