The safehouse was too quiet.

Jaxon was in the next room, cleaning his guns with that razor-sharp focus that both comforted and terrified me. Every scrape of metal, every click of a chamber sliding back into place, echoed like a heartbeat through the thin walls.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at my hands. The skin on my palm was still raw from clenching Jason’s note. I could feel the phantom sting where the paper had cut into me.

You’ll come back to me. You always do.

The ...