Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Call

The safehouse was nothing more than a crooked cabin buried in trees. Paint flaked from the siding like old scabs, shutters hung at odd angles, and the porch groaned under their steps. It smelled of mildew and dust inside, a place no one had cared for in years. Perfect.

Ethan closed the door with a quiet click, sliding the bolt home. He stood for a long moment, back pressed to the wood, shoulders tight with a weariness he refused to show.

Anna dumped the duffel on the warped table. “Sit,” she ordered.

He gave her a look, faintly amused despite the pallor of his skin. “Since when do you give the orders?”

“Since you’re bleeding,” she shot back.

Something in her tone silenced the retort. He lowered himself into the chair, breathing carefully, one hand hovering near his ribs. Anna pulled out what little they had salvaged—alcohol wipes, gauze from a battered first-aid tin, a roll of tape gone yellow at the edges.

“Not much,” she muttered.

“It’ll do.”

The wound was ugly up close. Angry flesh