But I’m surprised she knows so much about the situation. “Waylon told you what happened?”

“Tracked me down as soon as you went in the back with Persy. His trigger finger’s always been itchy—hence Rule number 4. But I think part of last night was him being pissed that he left the guy who hit you alive. That isn't Waylon to let someone cross him. And you’re his woman, so if someone hits you….”

Her words put a new filter on my conversation with Waylon before he locked me in that room. The way his eyes kept scanning my face….had that also been about the bruises and swelling?

My heart flips and flops, not quite knowing what to do as my chest fills up with all sorts of feelings I shouldn’t be having.

Persy’s right. He’s a total psycho. Last night proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

But a weirdly warm, protected feeling flows through me before I remind myself and Doc out loud, “For a price. He left Jonathan alive for a very steep price. And I’m not his woman.”

“Got it.” Doc rolls her eyes and gives me a sympathetic look. “I’ve never dated any of them, but I know a few of those Reapers will stake a claim even after you’ve told them no way in hell. Several times….”

She scowls in a way that makes me think she’s talking about a very specific example.

And it occurs to me that maybe she can help me out with more than coffee, over-the-counter painkillers, and an ice pack for my face. “Could I ask you one more favor?”

“Sure,” Doc answers. Her voice remains cheery enough, but she glances over my shoulder.

And when I look in that direction, Hades is watching me from the bottom of the stairs. Not possessively like Waylon. But I can tell he's definitely monitoring the situation in Waylon's stead.

Nothing I’ve seen since arriving here would lead me to believe that Doc would be able to help me with Hades watching us like a dark shadow.

So instead of asking her for the money and guidance I’d need to get out of this place, I shove all four pills into my mouth and wash them down with a big gulp of coffee. The scald of the hot liquid is just another piece of pain to throw on the pile.

“Thank you,” I tell Doc again.

She flashes another smile. But it’s a lot more brittle than the ones that came before it.

It’s a long, painful walk for me across the empty bar space. Every knotted muscle in my body cramps with dread at the prospect of having to spend several more hours holding onto Waylon for dear life on the back of his monster bike.