I wake up gripping my phone like it’s the only thing real. Sunlight leaks through the half-open blinds, warming the pale grey sheets. My vision is blurry, my mind fogged, but the voice—Lucian’s—pulls me back.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, expression carefully neutral. Oliver’s downstairs, I remember. “Mornin’,” he says, voice low with concern. “How’re you feeling?”
I swallow, dry throat, still numb. “Asleep,” I joke awkwardly. My voice cracks like I’m quoting someone else.
He offers a small smile. “Fair.”
I glance at the clock—10 a.m. “Late.”
“You should take it easy,” he says. “Carousel of idiots outside.” He nods toward the door; I already know what’s happening.
I twist and sit up. The bruise on my jaw reminds me—stings slightly in the cold room.
Lucian han
