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“Finn!” Darien’s deep voice sliced through the downpour. The detective turned, squinting through the rain. “Meet me at the morgue tomorrow morning. I want to have a look at those bodies.”
Her tea had gone cold.
Loren sat by herself at Roman’s kitchen table. Everyone else, as far as she knew, was fast asleep. Which was understandable, considering it was almost three in the morning. Even Singer was asleep in their bedroom upstairs.
The house was quiet. The only sounds she could hear were the ticking of the clock and the soft snoring of Itzel in the snack cupboard. The Hob was apparently quiet and well-behaved whenever Paxton was here, but maintained a very dramatic attitude toward anyone who wasn’t Paxton—even Roman. Loren found it kind of funny, though Itzel’s tendency to turn up the television to the highest volume often woke her during the night.
The garage door rolled open, the sound carrying through the house.
Loren sat up straighter, listening to the growl of Darien’s car as he pulled into the garage. The shudder of the door rolling shut came a moment later, and another minute or so passed before she heard the thud of a car door closing.
Loren fiddled with her pajama shirt, butterflies swarming her stomach.
Darien came into the house. She couldn’t see him yet, but she recognized the way he walked—with pride, all the time. He wore his identity like a badge of honor. Loren would bet no one and nothing could ever make this man drag his feet.
He rounded the corner in the same clothes he’d left the house in—a black hooded sweatshirt and jeans. The denim of his pants was stained red—Loren didn’t let her thoughts linger on what it was.
Darien froze the moment he saw her, looking equally concerned and surprised. “What are you doing up?”
She got to her feet. “I wanted to…make sure you were okay.” That same memory from earlier that evening played in her mind.
I haven’t been okay since I was fifteen, Darien had said.
But right now, he told her, “I’m okay.”
She smoothed the hem of her pajama shirt. “Where did you go?”
Darien hesitated briefly before saying, “I had a few stops to make.”
There was dried blood on the backs of his hands. Blood caked on his steel rings.
When he saw where her attention had gone, he slid his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt. “You should get some rest.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said softly. “The others said fighting is your coping mechanism. Gods know we all need those.”
He tore his eyes off her and walked into the kitchen. She didn’t miss that he gave her a far wider berth than he needed to. His back was facing her as he opened a cupboard by the fridge and grabbed a glass. At this angle, she was able to see the blood on his neck too, thick smears of it concealing his gang tattoo. “Most people go to therapy or support groups,” Darien said. “Fucked-Up Anonymous and all that.” He filled the glass with water from the fridge.
“Ivy told me you’ve tried therapy.”
“I did. They spat me out because I’m too fucked up.” He drank, tipping the glass back until he’d downed it all, and then placed the glass in the sink.
“We’re all flawed,” she offered gently.
He leaned his arms on the counter. “Except you. You’re perfect.”
Her face reddened. “I’m not. I get jealous and insecure. I cry too much. I’m bad at standing up for myself.”
A sad smile ghosted across his alluring mouth. “If you could only see how much you flew these last few months. You put me to shame.”
Gods, her face felt like it was on fire. “I highly doubt that.”
“We all may be flawed, but we’re also strong in our own unique ways. And when your memories come back, I think you’ll feel proud of the woman you’ve become.”
She tucked her hair behind an ear. “One memory did come back, actually.”
His mouth sank, those inky brows creeping together.
“I helped you,” she said. “With a Surge. We were at your house…and I stopped you from leaving. I told you to picture an ocean.” She stared at him, and he stared at her. She couldn’t read his expression, but she swore he wasn’t breathing. “Was that my magic?”
