The safe house is a cabin buried so deep in the pines that the GPS stopped trying to find us three miles ago. It is small, made of rough-hewn cedar that smells of sap and old secrets, and currently, it is the only thing standing between us and a pack of very angry elders.
Silas kicks the door shut behind us, the heavy timber thudding into place with a finality that makes my pulse jump. He doesn't turn on the lights. He doesn't have to. The moonlight through the windows is enough to catch the golden glow still simmering in his eyes.
"We stay here until Cassian signals that the Council has retreated to their holes," Silas says, his voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel. He is pacing the small room like a caged tiger, his suit jacket discarded and his white shirt unbuttoned halfway
