The pounding on the door wasn’t Barry’s. I knew that much the second I heard it—too hurried, too frantic, too… desperate. Still, my body reacted the same way it always did: knees pulling tight to my chest, breath caught in my throat, waiting for the worst. Dante moved before I could process anything, stepping toward the door, shoulders tense like a coiled spring.

“Stay here,” he repeated, voice low, sharp with command.

I wanted to argue, but the words tangled. My tongue felt thick, heavy, like speaking would betray the fragile stillness holding me together. So I nodded, pressing myself into the corner of the couch.

The knock came again,...