Enzo's POV
I've been lying on my back for what feels like a lifetime, the ticking sound of the clock on the wall count out the seconds with its lazy, uneven ticks. Outside, the afternoon light has slanted into gold, then bruised itself purple, and still Alaric hasn't come back. Every creak in the hallway startles me half upright; every motorcycle engine three blocks away drags hope through my aching ribs then lets it go.
He said he was going to "take care of" the man who hurt me. At the time those words had sounded protective, almost gentle, but hours later they ring metallic in my skull. "Take care of" can mean flowers and soup; it can also mean blood and concrete. I was beginning to worry more than I should have to. I digged under my pillow for my phone, I wanted to call him or text him but then in clicked on me, I don't have his phone number.
Think, Enzo. How do you reach a man who lives in shadows? How do you stop him once he's slipped beneath the surface to hunt?
