He kept his eyes on me as I shifted my position slightly. Sleep reclaimed him gradually, but peacefully this time. No twisted dreams. No silent wars. Genuine rest.
I remained there until sleep claimed me, too. Seconds before I slipped into my dream world, something surfaced. It was a persistent, familiar ache that felt like longing, constantly reminding me that maybe I'd been lying to myself about how well I handled solitude.
The apartment had fallen quiet again, but it wasn't empty. The fridge kicked on. My chair's leather creaked beneath me, and in the hush that followed, I realized I hadn't felt alone all morning.
Chapter six
Dorian
It was 5:30 AM, according to the digital clock glowing green beside Matthew's ancient television. He'd been asleep in his chair for three hours.
I'd been in the apartment for three nights—time to move. I now knew more of why Farid brought me here after my latest encounter with Hoyle's bastards, but I couldn't stay. I had every reason to trust McCabe, but I couldn't be responsible for him turning into collateral damage.
Matthew had left a clean set of clothes on the coffee table. The stolen scrubs had served their purpose, but they marked me as displaced and running. I needed to blend back into Seattle's early morning commuters, appearing like any other face heading somewhere important.
Each movement sent sharp bolts of pain through my ribs. The sutures pulled tight as I stood, reminding me that healing and escape operated on different timelines. I breathed through the discomfort, compartmentalizing the signals the way I'd been taught—pain was information, nothing more.
Unfortunately, information could still slow me down. My left arm moved stiffly, the shoulder joint protesting where I'd injured it in a fall on the way to Matthew's apartment.
A flash drive nestled in my boot's false heel where I'd hidden it days earlier. Insurance. Evidence. The kind of digital ammunition that could topple governments or get you disappeared, depending on who was pulling the trigger. I'd left my boots near the door, leaving my most valuable belonging vulnerable.
I didn't belong in places with hand-knit blankets and mugs left on tables for whenever you wanted them. I belonged in motion. Long ago, I'd become a creature of the shadows.
Matthew's apartment had two exits—the front door with multiple deadbolts, and the fire escape accessed through the bedroom window. I'd memorized the layout within my first conscious hour, scouting escape routes the way other people noticed furniture arrangements.
My bag was nothing more than a canvas messenger satchel I'd lifted from the hospital's lost and found. Inside: more stolen scrubs, basic first aid supplies, and forty-three dollars in crumpled bills. Everything I owned, minus the information that could burn down an empire.
I slowly pulled on the borrowed clothes. The hardwood floor creaked under my bare feet as I moved toward where my boots waited by the door. It was too loud. Matthew stirred in his chair.
"Going somewhere?"
His voice was gravelly with sleep but alert. I froze halfway to the door, bag in hand.
Matthew sat up slowly, running fingers through his dark hair. He wore a soft gray t-shirt and looked at me from across the room. The light was dim in the pre-dawn hours, but it was enough to spot his insistent stare.
I didn't answer. Couldn't, really. What was I supposed to say?Thanks for the medical care, but men like me don't lead nice lives.
"Dorian, you didn't answer."
I took another step toward the door. He moved faster than I expected, rising from the couch with the fluid grace of someone trained to respond to emergencies. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood as he positioned himself between me and the exit.
He didn't raise his hands or take an aggressive stance. He merely stood there, solid and immovable as a brick wall, watching me with those steady brown eyes.
"Why the hell did someone shoot you?"
His question was direct and impossible to sidestep.
I shifted my weight, testing whether I could slip past him, then caught myself as a wave of dizziness hit. Three days of irregular meals and blood loss had left me lighter on my feet than I wanted to be. Matthew mirrored my movement.
"I asked you a question—make that two."
His voice was level, not frantic, but had an undercurrent of pure steel. He didn't accept evasion when lives were on the line.
I could lie. I could spin some story about the wrong place, the wrong time, and random street violence. Matthew was civilian enough to believe it and decent enough to let me walk away with a fabricated explanation.
After everything, I couldn't do that to him. Other words slipped out instead.
"Because I didn't stay quiet."
