He presses his together, I think fighting back a smile. Either that or I’m just annoying him. It’s really hard to tell with him.

“So, about that guy you saw in the bar,” he starts as he moves to an end table. Another candle is on there, and he flicks the lighter to light it. “Were there any distinct features about him?”

“He had a scar on his face,” I say, sketching my finger down my face. “Right here.”

He considers what I said with a crinkle between his brows. “Hunter said he was maybe a little bit older than us, but not by much, right?”

I nod. “And he acted like I should know him, but I didn’t. Well, from what I can remember. My memories can be a little iffy sometimes.”

He bobs his head up and down. “Yeah, mine are a little fucked up, too.”

I raise my brows. “Really?” I’m not sure what I’m surprised by more—the fact that he has a hard time remembering stuff or that he’s sharing something about himself with me.

He shrugs. “Yeah, there’s some stuff I block. I think my mind chooses to do it.” He sets the lit candle down on the table, and I notice that, like on his face, his hand is cut up, too.

“So, were you in a fight tonight?” I question.

His lips turn up into a smirk. “If I was, it wouldn’t be anything new.”

“Oh, I know.” I make a mockingly scared face. “Scary Zay. I remember.”

He narrows his eyes at me, but I can tell he’s struggling not to smile. “And smart mouth Raven. I remember, too.”

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, trying not to smile. I’ll admit, though, that bantering with him is way better than stressing over my thoughts.

He stares at me with this weird look on his face, as if he can’t quite figure something out. Then he suddenly throws me off by saying, “I’m going to go get some firewood from the garage.” He reaches for the washroom door but pauses before opening it. “Stay right here,” he instructs.

“Yes, boss,” I mumble under my breath.

Something flickers in his eyes, like the flame of the candle in his hand. Then he tears his eyes off me and walks into the washroom, leaving me alone with nothing but the firelight to keep me company. As I stand there, all alone, my anxiety returns, and I decide that I might need a bit more to drink if I’m going to make it through the night without another panic attack.

I start for the kitchen but pause when I hear a soft thump from somewhere. I turn back around, holding my breath, wondering where it came from.

Thump.

I tense.

It’s coming from the front door.

I’m not sure why I’m scared. It could just be someone knocking. Then again, the neighborhood is in blackout mode. But maybe someone just needs to, like, borrow a flashlight or some candles … which we have plenty of, so …