Annoyingly Perfect

ROWAN’S POV

Music drifts through the safehouse.

Something old, jazz maybe, a woman’s voice curling through static, crooning about love and loss and wanting things she can’t have.

I follow the sound down the narrow hallway, my bare feet cold against marbles, Vance’s shirt hanging to my thighs and my body deliciously sore in ways that make me flush just thinking about.

Last night.

Goddess, last nigh