"What the hell is this?"The door didn't just open; it hit the stopper with a crack that sounded like a bone snapping. Nathan stood there, a wall of tailored charcoal wool and cold, hard violence. His tie was ripped open, his hair a mess from the wind, and his eyes—usually a calculated silver—were now dark, turbulent, and fixed entirely on Drake’s hands against my face.Drake didn't flinch. He didn't even stand up. He just let his thumbs swipe one last time across my cheekbones, drying the salt, before slowly pulling back. He looked at Nathan with the bored expression of a man who owned the room."You're late, Durand," Drake drawled. "By about ten gallons of water and a near-corpse."Nathan’s jaw worked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He didn't look at Drake. He looked at me—at the oversized blanket, my damp hair, and the way I was shaking. He moved then. He didn't walk; he closed the distance in two heavy, terrifying strides."Out," Nathan rasped, the word vibrating in the small room
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