She slept fitfully, with dreams both thrilling and terrifying accompanying her every moment. In them, Flanna was back at Rage, leaning against the bar while the music pulsated around her. This time, however, the man she sighted across the room was not the Neanderthal who wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was Jason Randolph, clad in blood-stained jeans and a black button-down shirt left open to expose his ravaged chest.
She went to him, drawn by the fact that he didn’t seem to be in pain despite his obvious injuries. There was something else she couldn’t put a finger on, something that dared her to approach, and when she stood before him, he took her hand in his and kissed her palm, their eyes never wavering from each other.
“When did you get hurt?” she asked, though speech seemed the mo
