Ness
Milena is still trying to process everything I’ve told her when the door slams open so hard it hits the wall.
Lagos stands in the doorway, his blond hair disheveled, his polo shirt wrinkled and torn at the collar. But the worst part is his face—his glasses are gone, and a trail of blood runs from his left eyebrow, down his cheek, all the way to his chin.
He’s furious.
I can see it in his tense posture, in the way he clenches his fists, in the wild, intense way his eyes roam over me from head to toe.
"Ness, we’re leaving."
It’s not a request.
It’s a clear, firm order.
I stand up from where I was sitting on the edge of the bed and frown, confused.
"What happened to you?"
"We're leaving!" he repeats, this time louder.
"Hey, don't talk to her like that," Milena interjects.
Lag
