No doubt the meeting will include the fancy tea setup she favors. For someone so badass, Harlow sure loves that tea cart and forcing us all to drink that shit. It’s actually pretty good, but I’ll never admit it. “Works for me.”

We parts ways when the hall branches, her heading downstairs and me heading to the room that’s become mine. I was never meant for captivity. If it weren’t for the daily trips to the Amazon faction and tower, I’d be going out of my mind by now.

I half expect Shiloh to be in the room when I get there, but it’s empty. I frown. She better be okay. Abel seems to have a choke hold on the Raider faction, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t still loyalists meandering around with itchy trigger fingers, just waiting for one of his people to pass by. No matter how capable she is, she’s not bulletproof.

If Broderick weren’t such an ass, he wouldn’t have let her walk out alone. He doesn’t see clearly where she’s concerned. Obviously he has a thing for her, but instead of admitting it, he veers too far in the other direction, holding her at a distance even though they’re supposedly such good friends. I don’t know how other people treat their friends, but I don’t avoid mine like they have the plague.

Though most of my friends are actually family.

Fuck.

I’m spiraling. This is ridiculous. I march into the closet and pull off my work clothing, switching to a pair of leggings and an oversized white shirt that looks like something that should be on a romance novel cover, complete with deep V down the chest. It’s ridiculously dramatic, and normally wearing it cheers me up immediately.

Nothing happens this time.

“I shouldn’t have let her walk out of that bar, either,” I mutter. It doesn’t matter that the power imbalance seems permanently off when it comes to me and Broderick. I could have kneecapped him and marched out of there on Shiloh’s heels. It’s not like it would have been hard.

The door to my bedroom opens, and the woman herself walks in. I don’t breathe a sigh of relief. I truly don’t. It’s just a tiny soundless exhale as I survey her, and I’m certainly not looking to make sure she’s okay and unharmed.

She shoots me a long look. “What’s got that expression on your face?”

I shrug. “It’s my face. I’m a person who has expressions.”

“Whatever.” She strides past me, pulling her shirt off in the process.

“What are you doing?” The question comes out too high, too fast, but what the fuck?