(Carlos’ POV)
Fat Freda’s whorehouse had stopped feeling like a sanctuary and started feeling like a coffin.
Same warped tables. Same sticky floor. Same humans laughing too loud to cover the dread in their chests.
Same blood bags in the fridge downstairs.
Thin, cold, lifeless. Like drinking a memory.
I sat on the edge of the bed in the cramped upstairs room, staring at the empty plastic bag on the floor. My burns had mostly closed, but they still hurt, tight and ugly under the skin. Ragnar’s fire had gone deep.
Blood bags didn’t touch that hurt. Not the real kind.
I was tired. Tired of being “good.” Tired of playing at restraint. Tired of pretending I was anything but what I was.
I picked up my coat, shrugged it on, and headed for the stairs.
Freda intercepted me. She looked me up
