Chapter 2: Shut Up and Take It, Witch
The apartment door swung open and hit the wall with a crack that would've pissed off any landlord who gave a shit. None of them did. The place was a shithole, but it was their shithole—a three-bedroom wreck on the fourth floor of a building that should've been condemned a decade ago. Water stains bloomed across the ceiling like brown flowers. The carpet had given up sometime during the Clinton administration. And the AC unit in the living room rattled like it was begging for death.
James kicked the door shut behind them. Jackie was already peeling off her heels, wobbling on one foot, then the other, muttering about how her feet were gonna fall off.
"Those shoes are stupid," James said.
"These shoes cost more than your whole wardrobe."
"Still stupid."
She flipped him off and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, where a half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the counter like a welcome mat. She grabbed it by the neck and took a long pull, not bothering with a glass.
Ashanti stood in the hallway, jacket still zipped, hair a disaster, watching Logan disappear into the bathroom. The door clicked shut. The shower kicked on a second later—pipes groaning, water hammering against tile.
She turned to James. He was already sprawled on the couch, boots up on the coffee table, phone in hand.
"What's his problem?" she asked.
James didn't look up. "You."
"I didn't do anything."
"You sucked a stranger's dick in an alley."
"I was making money."
"You were making a point."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. He wasn't wrong. She hated when he wasn't wrong.
Jackie came back from the kitchen with the whiskey and dropped onto the couch beside James, close enough that her thigh pressed against his. He didn't move away. She took another swig and passed him the bottle. He drank. They sat there like that, passing the whiskey back and forth, some silent ritual she wasn't part of.
Ashanti's jaw tightened.
She walked to the bathroom door. Stood there. Listened to the water run. Her hand hovered over the knob.
Then she knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again.
The shower cut off. A beat of silence. Then the door swung open.
Logan stood in the doorway, towel around his waist, water dripping down his chest, steam curling around him like smoke. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His eyes were brown again, but there was something hard underneath them. Something held back.
He didn't say anything.
She stepped forward. Pressed her palm flat against his chest. Felt his heart beating, steady and slow.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He caught her wrist.
His grip wasn't rough. It was just—there. Immovable. His thumb pressed against her pulse point, feeling it jump.
"Don't," he said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't apologize if you don't mean it."
She looked up at him. The steam was fogging the mirror behind him. Water beaded on his collarbone and rolled down his chest. She wanted to lick it off.
"I mean it," she said.
"You don't."
"Logan—"
He pulled her into the bedroom.
The door slammed behind them. She heard the lock click. Then she was moving backward, stumbling over a pile of clothes, her back hitting the mattress. The bed groaned. The LED strip on the wall flickered, buzzing like a trapped fly.
She tried to climb on top of him—she always climbed on top, she liked the control—but his hand caught her wrist again. Twisted. Pinned it above her head.
Then his other hand caught the second.
She was on her back. Both wrists trapped in one of his hands, pinned to the pillow. His body came down over hers, heavy and hot, and the towel had already fallen away.
He was hard. She could feel him against her thigh. Thick and hot and ready. But he didn't move.
He just looked at her.
His eyes were amber now. The wolf was there, staring out at her through a human face. His jaw was tight. His chest heaved with slow, controlled breaths.
"You want it?" he asked.
"Logan—"
"Do you want it?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want it."
He shook his head. A drop of water fell from his hair onto her cheek.
"Louder."
She swallowed. Her throat was dry. "I want it."
"Want what?"
She hated this. Hated the way he made her say it. Hated the way her hips rolled up against him without her permission, desperate for friction, and hated the way he pulled back just enough to deny her.
"Say it," he repeated. His voice was low. Rough. The growl was already underneath it, scraping against her skin.
"I want you to fuck me."
"That's not what I asked."
Her cheeks burned. "I want your cock."
"Where?"
"In my pussy."
He stared at her for a long moment. Water dripped off him onto her shirt, dark spots blooming against the fabric. Then he let go of her wrists.
"Take off your clothes."
She moved fast. Jacket off, shirt yanked over her head, skirt shoved down her legs. Her panties were already soaked, a dark patch in the crotch, and she peeled them off and tossed them somewhere into the dark. Her boots were still on. She didn't bother.
Logan watched her. Didn't help.
When she was naked except for the boots, he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her toward him, positioning her at the edge of the mattress. He dropped to his knees on the floor.
She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him. His face was level with her cunt. His breath was hot against her thighs.
"Please," she whispered.
He didn't move.
"Please, Logan."
"Beg."
"I am begging."
"Better."
She bit her lip. Hard enough to taste copper. "Please. Please, baby. I need it. I need your mouth on me. I need your tongue in my cunt. Please."
He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just lowered his head.
His tongue dragged up her slit. Slow. Deliberate. A long, flat stroke from her opening to her clit, ending with a flick that made her whole body jerk.
She moaned. Loud.
His tongue circled her clit. Teased it. Then he pulled back.
"No," she gasped. "No, no, don't stop—"
"If you apologize again," he said, voice muffled against her thigh, "I'll stop."
Her mouth snapped shut.
He went back to work.
His tongue was merciless. He licked and sucked and flicked, alternating rhythm and pressure until she was writhing on the mattress, hands fisted in the sheets, heels digging into his shoulders. She was close. So close.
And then he stopped.
She almost screamed.
He stood up. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock was so hard it looked painful, curving up toward his stomach, leaking at the tip.
"Turn over," he said.
She didn't argue. She flipped onto her stomach, ass up, face pressed into the pillow that smelled like him—pine and musk and something wild.
She heard him behind her. Felt the mattress dip. Then his hand was on her hip, pulling her back toward him, positioning her.
The head of his cock pressed against her entrance.
"Don't apologize," he said.
"I won't."
"Don't talk."
She nodded into the pillow.
He pushed inside.
Slow. Steady. She grunted, fingers twisting in the sheets, as he filled her inch by inch. He was thick. Bigger than she remembered. Stretching her open.
When he was fully buried, he paused. His hips pressed flush against her ass. His hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise.
"That what you wanted?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in.
She cried out. The sound was swallowed by the pillow.
He fucked her like that—hard, deep, punishing. Each thrust drove her face into the mattress, shook the bed frame, made the LED strip flicker faster. His hips slapped against her ass with a rhythm that was almost brutal.
Every time she tried to apologize—every time she opened her mouth to say sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry—he growled. Low and menacing. And she shut up.
His hand slithered around her hip. Fingers found her clit. Pressed down. Started rubbing tight circles while he fucked her.
The combination was too much. She was already close from his mouth, and now—
"Come on," he rasped. "Come on my cock. Do it."
She tried to say something. Tried to say his name. It came out as a sob.
"I said come."
His teeth found her shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin—but close. Just enough to feel. Just enough to remind her what he was.
She shattered.
Her cunt clamped down around him. Her whole body convulsed, back arching, toes curling inside her boots. She came with a broken moan that left her throat raw.
Logan didn't stop. He rode her through it, hips still pumping, thumb still working her clit. It bordered on painful—too much, too sensitive—but he didn't let up.
"I'm gonna fill you up," he said. Not asking. Telling.
She nodded into the pillow. Couldn't speak.
Three more thrusts. Four. Then he buried himself deep and came with a growl that vibrated through her entire body. She could feel it—the hot flood of his cum inside her, pumping in waves.
He stayed there. Breathing hard. Cock still buried.
Her cheek was pressed against the mattress. Sweat cooling on her skin. Hair stuck to her face.
After a long moment, he pulled out. She felt his cum leak out of her, slide down her thigh. He didn't wipe it up. Didn't move.
Then his hand—the one not holding her hip—came up and pushed the hair off her face.
"You good?" he asked.
His voice was soft now. The wolf gone. Just Logan.
She nodded. Swallowed.
He pulled away. She heard him walk to the bathroom. Water ran. He came back with a washcloth, still warm, and cleaned her up. Gentle. Careful.
She rolled onto her back and looked at him. He was standing over her, no towel now, just naked and unbothered. Water still dripping from his hair.
"Say it again," he said.
"Say what?"
"That you're sorry."
She blinked. "I'm sorry."
He stared at her.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"Okay," he said.
He walked to the door. Opened it.
From the living room, Jackie's voice rang out: "Finally! I've been waiting for you two to finish for like an hour. James won't let me have an orgasm until you're done."
James: "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said!"
Logan looked back at Ashanti. She was still sprawled on the bed, legs open, hair a mess, boots still on.
"You coming?" he asked.
She laughed. Weak. Breathless.
"Yeah," she said. "I'm coming."
She rolled off the mattress, boots hitting the floor with twin thuds. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Cum was still leaking out of her, tacky against her inner thighs. She didn't bother wiping it.
Logan was already pulling on sweats. No underwear. He never wore underwear. She'd asked him about it once and he'd just stared at her until she dropped it.
She grabbed a shirt off the floor—his, she thought, faded black with a hole in the armpit—and pulled it over her head. It hung past her hips, covered the essentials. Good enough.
The bedroom door swung open.
Jackie stood in the hallway, hip cocked, arms crossed. She'd changed into a silk robe that barely covered her ass. Her makeup was somehow still perfect. Bitch.
"Took you long enough," she said.
Ashanti shrugged. "He needed to make a point."
"Did he?"
"Yeah."
Logan walked past both of them without a word, heading for the kitchen. Jackie watched him go, then turned back to Ashanti with eyebrows raised.
"That man is a fucking statue."
"He's fine."
"He's carved from granite and emotionally constipated."
"Also fine."
Jackie laughed. Grabbed Ashanti by the wrist and dragged her toward the living room. James was on the couch, shirtless, a fresh bottle of whiskey open on the table. His chest was a roadmap of scars—some from fights, some from the job, some from things he never talked about.
He looked up when they walked in.
"You two done?"
"For now," Ashanti said.
"Good. We got business."
Logan emerged from the kitchen with a beer. Cracked it open. Leaned against the wall. Said nothing.
James took a pull from the whiskey bottle and set it down. His face shifted—the smirk fading into something harder. The face he wore when he was working. When he was planning.
"The Black Aces got a problem," he said. "Marcus was small-time. Owed us three grand. That's nothing. But the fucking idiot was also running his mouth to the wrong people."
"What people?" Jackie asked. She'd settled onto the arm of the couch, legs crossed, robe riding up.
"Cartel. Los Muertos." James's jaw tightened. "He was trying to flip. Wanted to sell them our routes. Our contacts."
Logan's hand tightened around his beer bottle.
"I take it that didn't work out for him," Ashanti said.
"No. Because we caught him first." James leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the couch. "But the cartel knows something's up. They're asking questions. And I don't like questions."
Silence settled over the room. The AC unit rattled. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor's TV blared a laugh track.
"So what's the play?" Jackie asked.
James looked at her. Then at Ashanti. His eyes were dark, calculating. The same eyes he'd had when he first made the deal with both of them—their bodies for shelter, their silence for safety. It wasn't the worst arrangement she'd ever had. But it wasn't the best either.
"We need information," he said. "And I know a guy who might have it."
"Who?"
"Ronan Vex."
Jackie's face went pale. Just for a second. Then she covered it with a sneer.
"The bloodsucker?"
"The very same."
"He's dangerous."
"He's useful." James stood up. Grabbed his shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head. "And he owes me a favor. From way back."
"What kind of favor?" Ashanti asked.
James smiled. That dangerous smile that meant trouble.
"The kind you don't ask about."
Logan pushed off the wall.
"When?"
"Tomorrow night. The Crimson Lounge." James grabbed his jacket. "You're coming with me."
Logan nodded.
"And her?" James jerked his chin toward Ashanti.
"She stays."
"The fuck she does." Ashanti stepped forward. "I'm not some house pet you leave behind."
"You're a liability. You can't keep your hands off anything with a pulse. We're walking into vampire territory. The last thing I need is you getting wet over some undead dick and blowing the whole operation."
"I don't get wet over undead dick."
"Remember Portland?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
"That's what I thought." James pulled on his jacket. "You stay. Watch Jackie. Keep the apartment standing. We'll be back by sunrise."
"I don't need a babysitter," Jackie muttered.
"Both of you need babysitters. That's why we're still stuck with you."
Jackie flipped him off. He caught her hand and pulled her toward him, kissing her hard, quick, possessive. She bit his lip when he pulled away. Drew blood.
He laughed.
"Keep that energy," he said. "I'll be back for it."
He headed for the door. Logan followed.
Ashanti caught his wrist.
He stopped. Looked down at her. His eyes were brown. Tired.
"Come back," she said.
"I always do."
"That's not a promise."
"No." He pulled his hand free. Gentle. "It's not."
The door shut behind them. The lock clicked. And then they were alone—Ashanti, Jackie, and the rattling AC unit.
Jackie let out a long breath and slumped onto the couch.
"Well," she said, "that's gonna be a shitshow."
Ashanti didn't answer. She was staring at the door. At nothing.
"You good?" Jackie asked.
No. But she never was. She was always a little broken. A little raw. A little wrong.
"I need a drink," she said.
Jackie grabbed the whiskey.
"Way ahead of you."
---
Whiskey burned going down. Ashanti welcomed it. She took the bottle from Jackie's hand and held it to her chest, letting the glass warm against her skin. The apartment felt smaller without James and Logan in it. Like the walls were closing in, inch by inch, trying to swallow her whole.
Jackie had draped herself across the couch like a cat, robe open at the front, one leg dangling off the armrest. She was watching Ashanti with those sharp eyes, the ones that missed nothing. "You're spiraling."
"I'm fine."
"You're doing that thing where you stare at nothing and pretend you're not freaking out."
"I'm not freaking out."
"Okay."
"I'm not."
Jackie held up her hands. "I said okay."
Ashanti took another drink. The whiskey was cheap, harsh, the kind that stripped your throat raw on the way down. James bought it by the case. She hated it. She drank it anyway.
The silence stretched. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. A dog barked. The city outside kept grinding along, indifferent to the four broken people in this apartment.
"You think they're gonna be alright?" Ashanti asked.
Jackie shrugged. "They always are."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I got." Jackie sat up, pulling her robe closed. "Logan's a tank. James is too smart to die. They'll come back."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we're fucked. But that's a problem for tomorrow."
Ashanti hated that answer too. But she didn't have a better one. She set the bottle down and stood, her legs still unsteady from earlier. Cum had dried on her thighs, tacky and uncomfortable. She needed a shower. Needed to wash the night off her skin.
"Where you going?" Jackie asked.
"Shower."
"Want company?"
"No."
"Fair enough."
Ashanti walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and stood in the dark for a long moment. No lights. Just the hum of the city and the drip of the faucet. Then she turned on the water and stepped under the spray.
It was cold at first. Then hot. Steam filled the room, fogging the mirror, blurring the cracked tiles. She stood there and let it run over her, washing away sweat and sex and something else. Something she couldn't name.
When she got out, she wrapped herself in a towel that smelled like mildew and went to the bedroom. Logan's bedroom. Their bedroom, technically. She slept here more than anywhere else.
She crawled into his bed. The sheets were still tangled from earlier. His scent was everywhere—pine and musk and something animal. She pressed her face into the pillow and breathed deep.
Sleep came fast. Hard.
---
Morning light was a rumor in this apartment, filtered through blackout curtains that had seen better decades. Ashanti woke slow, her body heavy, her mind still swimming up from some dream she couldn't remember. The sheets were warm. The pillow smelled like Logan. And he was there—next to her, on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
She watched him for a while. The way his jaw relaxed when he slept. The way his stubble caught the dim light. The way his hand, even in sleep, rested close to her hip like he was ready to pull her back if she tried to leave.
Mornings like this were rare. Quiet. Almost dreamlike. No blood. No deals. No chaos. Just the two of them, pretending the world wasn't on fire.
She reached over and poked his cheek.
He didn't move.
She poked him again.
His arm shifted. A grunt. Not quite awake.
"Logan?" Her voice was soft. Barely a whisper. "You awake?"
Another grunt. His hand moved to his face, rubbing his eyes.
"I wanna kiss you."
His hand dropped. His eyes opened. Brown, not amber. Tired but present.
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he shifted onto his side, facing her. His hand found her hip. Squeezed once.
"You're still here," he said.
"Where else would I be?"
He didn't answer. Just pulled her closer, until her forehead pressed against his chest, until his heartbeat thudded against her cheek. She could hear the apartment around them. The AC unit struggling. The neighbors arguing through thin walls. And underneath it all—the unmistakable sound of Jackie moaning.
James's voice, low and rough, drifted through the wall. Something filthy. Something that made Jackie laugh, then moan again. The bed in their room creaked. Rhythm building. The sounds filtered through the apartment like smoke, impossible to ignore.
Ashanti should've been annoyed. Or amused. Or disgusted. Instead, she just lay there, her body curled into Logan's, listening to the world outside fade to static.
Logan's hand moved to her hair. Fingers threading through the tangles, gentle, almost reverent. His eyes met hers. Held.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
The sounds from the other room blurred. The creaking bed, Jackie's breathless laugh, James's grunt—all of it muffled by the weight of this moment. Just them. Just this.
She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip. He didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.
"Logan?"
"Yeah?"
"I wanna kiss you."
He didn't say anything. Just leaned in, slow, and pressed his mouth to hers.
It wasn't like last night. Not rough. Not punishing. Soft. Tender. The kind of kiss that didn't belong in an apartment like this, between people like them. His lips parted, and she slipped her tongue inside, tasting sleep and whiskey and something underneath that was just him.
He kissed her back like he was drowning. Like she was air.
Her hand slid down his chest. Past the scars, the ridges of muscle, the faint trail of hair below his navel. She found him hard, already, straining against his sweats. He sucked in a breath when her fingers wrapped around him through the fabric.
"Ashanti—"
"Shh."
He didn't argue. Just watched her with those tired brown eyes, his chest rising and falling faster now.
She pushed his sweats down. He kicked them off. His cock sprang free—thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. She wrapped her hand around him and stroked once, slow, watching his jaw clench.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
His voice was rough. Barely there. "You."
"Be specific."
He grabbed her wrist. Stopped her. His eyes flickered amber, just for a second. The wolf was there, clawing at the surface. She could feel it in the tension of his grip.
"Don't make me say it."
"Say it anyway."
He stared at her. The muscles in his neck were taut. His jaw worked like he was chewing glass.
"I want to fuck you," he said. "Slow. I want to feel you."
Her breath caught. "Okay."
She rolled onto her back. He moved over her, settling between her legs, and she reached down to guide him in. The head of his cock pressed against her, slick and ready. She was already wet—she'd been wet since she woke up, since she felt his body next to hers.
He pushed inside.
Slow. So slow. Inch by inch, watching her face, watching her mouth fall open. She reached up and gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
When he was fully inside, he stopped. Breathed. His forehead dropped to hers.
"Fuck," he whispered.
She said nothing. Just wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.
He moved then. Slow, steady strokes, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in like he had all the time in the world. The bed creaked beneath them, softer than the one in James's room, the rhythm different. Slower. Deliberate.
Through the wall, Jackie's voice pitched higher. A sharp cry, then a string of curses, then James's low laugh. The sounds faded as Ashanti focused on Logan—on the feel of him inside her, on the weight of his body, on the way his breath caught every time he bottomed out.
She reached for him. Grabbed his face in both hands. Made him look at her.
"Stay with me," she whispered.
He nodded. Sweat beaded on his temple. His eyes were brown again, but barely.
She arched her back. Met his thrusts. The angle shifted, and suddenly he was hitting something deep, something that made sparks flash behind her eyes. She gasped. His hand clamped over her mouth.
"Quiet," he rasped. "They'll hear."
She didn't care. But she nodded.
He moved faster. Still slow enough to feel every inch, but with a new urgency. His hips rolled, grinding against her clit with each thrust. Her legs tightened around him. Her nails raked down his back.
She felt the tension building in him. Felt his muscles coil, his breathing ragged, his thrusts growing deeper, more desperate.
His hand gripped the sheets. White-knuckled. His jaw clenched so hard she thought his teeth might crack.
She knew what he was fighting. The wolf wanted to mark her. Wanted to bite down on her shoulder and claim her, knot her, bind her to him forever. He'd told her once, in a moment of weakness, what it meant. What he was holding back.
He bit down on the pillow instead.
A muffled growl vibrated through the fabric. His hips slammed into her, once, twice—then he was coming, filling her, hot and thick, his whole body shuddering with the effort of holding back.
She came with him. Her cunt clenched around his cock, pulling him deeper, milking every last drop. A moan escaped her throat, and his hand was there again, covering her mouth, catching the sound.
They stayed like that. Tangled. Sweaty. Breathing hard. The sounds from the other room had stopped. Or maybe she just couldn't hear them anymore.
He pulled out slow. Rolled onto his back. Stared at the ceiling.
She turned to look at him. His chest was still heaving. His eyes were closed.
"Logan?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you."
He didn't open his eyes. "For what?"
"For staying."
He was quiet for a long time. Then his hand found hers under the sheets. Squeezed.
"Don't get used to it," he said.
But he didn't let go.
The apartment was quiet now. Jackie and James had finished, probably passed out, probably still tangled in their own wreckage. The AC rattled. A siren wailed somewhere far away. The world kept turning.
Ashanti pressed her face into Logan's shoulder. He smelled like sweat and sex and something that was just him. She closed her eyes.
For now, this was enough. For now, they were here. Together. Pretending.
Tomorrow would bring blood and vampires and deals with devils. Tomorrow would bring danger and death and choices that couldn't be unmade. But right now—this morning, this moment—was hers.
She held onto it. And didn't let go.
---
The shower cleared her head. Cold water, not hot. Enough to shock the sleep out of her system. She stood under the spray until her skin prickled and her fingers went numb.
When she came out, Logan was dressed. Jeans, boots, black t-shirt stretched over his chest. He was checking the clip in his pistol. The quiet domesticity of it almost made her laugh.
"Going somewhere?"
"Meeting," he said. Didn't elaborate.
"James know?"
"James called it."
She grabbed a shirt off the floor—one of his, again—and pulled it over her head. "What kind of meeting?"
He slid the clip back into the gun. Clicked it home. Looked at her.
"The kind you don't ask about."
She crossed the room and stood in front of him. Bare legs. Bare feet. Hair still dripping.
"Come back."
He reached out. Tucked a wet strand behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek.
"Always do."
"That's not a promise."
"No." His hand dropped. "It's not."
He walked past her. Through the bedroom door. Down the hall. She heard the front door open, then close. The lock clicked.
She stood there for a long moment. Then she went to find Jackie.
The living room smelled like sex and whiskey and something burning. Jackie was on the couch, wrapped in a sheet, smoking a cigarette she'd definitely stolen from James's stash. Her hair was a disaster. Her neck was a roadmap of bruises.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning."
"Logan left?"
"Yeah."
"He say where?"
"No."
Jackie nodded. Took a drag. Exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Men."
Ashanti dropped onto the couch beside her. Stole the cigarette. Took a drag of her own.
They sat there in silence. Two women in a shitty apartment, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I need a job," Ashanti said.
"You need a lot of things."
"I need money."
"We all need money."
Ashanti passed the cigarette back. "I could do readings. Tarot. Palm. That kinda shit."
"You tried that last year. You got banned from three bars for 'soliciting.'"
"I wasn't soliciting. I was offering spiritual guidance."
"You were offering handjobs."
"I was offering spiritual guidance with my hands."
Jackie laughed. Real. Warm. The first genuine sound she'd made all morning.
"You're a disaster," she said.
"Takes one to know one."
They passed the cigarette back and forth. The smoke curled toward the ceiling, mixing with the dust and the regret.
"You hear from James?" Ashanti asked.
"He texted. Said they'd be back by nightfall."
"And?"
"And nothing. That's all he said."
Ashanti leaned back. Stared at the water-stained ceiling. "You ever think about leaving?"
Jackie didn't answer right away. Took a long drag. Let the smoke out slow.
"Every day," she said. "But where would I go?"
"Anywhere."
"Anywhere's just another shithole with different wallpaper."
Ashanti couldn't argue with that. She'd left her coven, left her family, left everything she knew. And here she was. Same chaos. Same broken people. Same burning world.
But at least here she had Logan. At least here she had Jackie. At least here she wasn't alone.
She reached over and took Jackie's hand. Squeezed.
"We'll figure it out," she said.
Jackie snorted. "That's what you said last week."
"Last week doesn't count."
"Why not?"
"Because last week I was optimistic."
Jackie laughed again. Shook her head. Stubbed out the cigarette on the arm of the couch—one of many burn marks.
"Fine," she said. "We'll figure it out."
The words hung in the air. Two women. One apartment. A whole city of bad decisions waiting outside the door.
Ashanti stood up. Pulled down the hem of Logan's shirt. "I'm making coffee."
"There's no coffee."
"Then I'm making whiskey."
"Now you're talking."
She walked to the kitchen. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. The counter was littered with empty bottles, old takeout containers, a single fork. She grabbed the whiskey and two glasses.
Through the window, the city sprawled. Gray. Wet. Alive. Somewhere out there, Logan and James were walking into danger. Somewhere out there, Ronan Vex was waiting. Somewhere out there, the whole fragile world they'd built was one wrong move from collapsing.
But right now, she had whiskey. She had Jackie. She had another day.
She poured two glasses. Raised one to the ceiling. Drank.