The safehouse smelled like dust and stale cigarettes. The kind of place that had seen too many fugitives pass through and none stay long. The walls were thin, the locks weak, but it was all we had.

Jaxon was stretched out on the couch, pale, his shirt torn open to expose the wound I was stitching with trembling hands. The needle shook between my fingers, slick with his blood. Every time he winced, I flinched harder.

“You’re heavy-handed,” he muttered, his jaw tight, though his voice ...