What the…? Mason squeezed his eyes tight, fumbling under the covers, trying to turn toward the sharp rap on the door. As soon as he was free of the sheets, he was on his feet, knife in hand before the recollection swept in. A dream…hard to recall. Dark curls. Dark eyes. Antonio’s mouth. Blood bubbling over his lips wiping away his smile.
While flexing his damaged hand, Mason set aside the knife, reached for clothes, and pulled on trousers. Doubtful whoever stood on the other side of the door would wait, but when a tap came again, the caller proved persistent. Not an emergency, though. No one called out. No one pounded on the door, and zombies didn’t knock.
Kyle slept on. Mason spared him a glance before crossing the room. No time to wake him, turf him out of the bed. Throwing a sheet ove
