I let thirty more seconds pass, counting heartbeats, then slide from under the blanket and lace up my boots. I dress in the dark, quick and quiet.
I tell myself it’s strategy, a test of discipline. But the truth curls tighter in my chest: if I know where Jax goes, I’ll know if I’m safe with him. That’s not strategy. That’s me hoping.
The halls are empty, except for the rhythm of my own steps. I go predator-light: every sense alive, every muscle tuned to the chase. The trick is to stay far enough back to avoid warning him, close enough to never lose the trail.
Down two flights, then a left. The corridor outside the Residential Wing is stone and shadow, and I catch the faintest whiff of Jax’s scent. I follow it, nose low, keeping one hand pressed to the rough wall. Twice he stops ahead of
