The sleet storm out over the ocean finally breaks around three in the morning, leaving behind a thick, heavy silence that settles over the city.
The penthouse is completely still.
Ten minutes ago, my Dad, Mayhem, and all the others headed back to the clubhouse to keep the perimeter secure. The guys in our lobby and on our roof just did a shift change, and Byte packed his heavy hard drives into black cases before slipping silently away.
Now, it’s just the two of us left awake and here. Just me and Locke.
I stand at the island in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of Locke’s oversized black t-shirts. The soft cotton hangs past my thighs, warm and smelling faintly of his sandalwood soap.
I’m slowly stirring two mugs of weak chamomile tea, watching the steam curl up into the dim light.
