Jason woke slowly, consciousness returning in fragments. His head felt heavy, like it was filled with cotton, and his body ached in ways that suggested he'd been dropped from a considerable height. His skin was clammy, sticky with dried sweat, but the fever haze that had been clouding his thoughts for days had finally broken.
The first thing he noticed was the ceiling above him. It wasn't his. The second was the weight of a gaze pressing down on him like a physical thing.
He turned his head, movement sluggish and deliberate, and saw Ivan across the room. He was seated in a chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on Jason with an expression that gave nothing away. How long had he been sitting there? How long had Jason been unconscious?
Jason's heart jumped, a stuttering rhythm that made his chest tight. His throat felt like sandpaper when he tried to swallow. He didn't ask how he'd gotten here—didn't need to. The truth flickered behind his eyes in scattered images. Ivan catching
