JACE
I COULD STILL taste blood—his or mine, I didn’t know. Didn’t care.
Andrei’s grip on my jacket didn’t loosen. He didn’t say a word, didn’t let me breathe, didn’t look at me like a man should. He dragged me.
Out of the alley. Across the street. Into the mess of traffic and neon and people who didn’t care about the bruise on my jaw or the dried blood on his shirt.
He didn’t say a word.
I didn’t ask him to.
The hotel wasn’t far. Some faceless place with mirrors in the elevator and the kind of wallpaper that peeled at the edges. I kept my head down. My hands in my pockets as I followed.
Room 712. His key card clicked. The door opened and walked in. I didn’t hesitate.
I didn’t need to ask why.
The door shut behind me like a trap. The room smelled faintly of cigarettes and leather a
