He steps in, whiskey still ribboning through his veins, and studies her like he’s shopping for a suit. Nathan shadows him, already mapping exits, counting beats between breaths.
Vanessa flinches but doesn’t look away.
“Stand up,” I tell her.
She doesn’t. The corner of Jericho’s mouth twitches—amused, like he’s found a dog that hasn’t learned to heel.
He circles her, making guttural little sounds, pointing like he’s on a showroom floor, baring a grin full of teeth.
“So this is what you were hiding,” he murmurs.
The girl’s face twists with disgust. I see her hold her breath, but all I care about is the desperate look she shoots me, like I’m her last shield against death.
“Damn, she’s a knockout, Michael. No wonder you didn’t want me seeing her,” Jericho laughs.
He rubs his hands; the
