Logan's POV
I've never been so angry to be woken up from a dream before.
Even though it doesn't even feel like a dream.
Not really.
I can still taste the spring rolls oil that I'd sucked off Noah's fingers. I can still feel the weight of his body pressed against my back, his fingers on my abdomen, his nipples through that cursed rat shirt, his voice in my ear as he'd screamed—
"You reckless idiot!"
I groan, and my head immediately throbs in response.
Fuck.
It's a slow pain, like something dull wedged behind my eyes and decided hammering from the inside of my skull is its favourite pastime. I reach up and touch my forehead. No blood. No bruises. But my skin feels like sandpaper—coated in dirt and dust and dried sweat.
I blink again, and this time, the world finishes coming into focus.
I'm in the living room of the Big House.
The soft glow spilling through the windows is orange, warm—sunset. It's evening and the first thing I notice is that the house is quiet.
Too quiet.
