Isla's POV.
Waking up felt like swimming through static.
My mouth was dry. My head was heavy. And for a solid minute, I thought I'd died, come back, and someone forgot to plug my soul back in correctly.
I groaned.
Wherever I was, it smelled… expensive. Like leather, cologne, and a faint trace of mint. Definitely not my dorm. And definitely not the club.
Wait. Club?
Flashes came in disjointed pieces.
Sophie. The crowd. Chanting—Queen of Daggers, Queen of Daggers!
Drinks shoved into my hands. Laughter. Pressure. And then—darkness.
I cracked one eye open.
The ceiling above me was smooth, unfamiliar, and way too clean. My body was wrapped in a thick blanket that definitely wasn't mine. I shifted a little and winced.
Ugh. My skirt. Still on. Legs cold. Jacket draped over me like an afterthought.
I sat up slowly.
That's when I heard it. A soft clink of glass. Footsteps. Someone moving behind the half-wall that separated the couch from—what looked like a kitchen?
"Morning, Sleeping Daggers," came a low voice.
I froze.
I knew that voice.
Arthur Gray stepped into view, holding a mug of what I desperately hoped was coffee. His shirt was wrinkled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hair looked like he'd dragged his hand through it a thousand times.
"What—" I blinked, rubbing my temples. "Where the hell am I?"
"My place," he said casually, setting the mug down on the table in front of me. "Don't worry. Nothing happened. You passed out before you could ruin my furniture."
I stared at him.
He looked too calm.
"Why the hell am I here?"
"Because your best friend was too stunned to move, and I wasn't about to let you drop in front of a hundred wolves," he replied, sitting across from me. "You're welcome, by the way."
I narrowed my eyes. "You carried me out."
"Dragged, actually. You're surprisingly heavy for someone with chicken legs."
I threw a cushion at him.
He caught it, smirking.
That's when something shifted.
Because for a second—just a second—I remembered something else.
Me, leaning close.
His face in my hands.
Me calling him—God, did I say Arty?
I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head.
"Don't," I muttered. "Don't tell me I did anything embarrassing."
"Oh, you did," Arthur replied. "You called me handsome. Then said you hated me. Then passed out while trying to remove one boot."
I peeked out from the blanket. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
He looked too smug.
I glared at him, then grabbed the coffee and took a sip.
Silence fell between us, and despite the headache, despite the vague sense of shame, something about the quiet felt… weirdly safe.
I studied him over the rim of the mug.
He looked tired. Not in a physical way, but in that heavy, always-thinking, always-carrying kind of way.
"You didn't have to bring me here," I said quietly.
"I know."
"So why'd you?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me for a moment too long.
Then—shrug.
"Because I didn't want to leave you behind," he said.
Simple.
Honest.
Dangerous.
I stared down at the coffee and tried not to let that answer sink in too deep.
Because if I did—I'd start wondering what the hell this meant.
And I wasn't sure I was ready for that.