I woke without Drew wrapped around me, in me, or even next to me. It felt cold and lonely, and I popped up on my elbows, wide awake and terrified.
"I'm here," Drew said.
My head whipped around. He sat by the bed in the chair he'd used to keep watch over me after our escape, the one usually covered in a pile of half-clean laundry these days. He'd gotten dressed, too—in some of the clothes that'd been heaped on the chair, by the wrinkles.
And he looked like hell otherwise, too: dark, greyish circles under his bloodshot eyes, pale cheeks, several days' worth of beard growth, and lips pressed into a flat, grim line.
A heavy coil of tension balled in my belly.
"Drew? What's wrong?" Other than the obvious, of course.
He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, scrubbing his hands over his face. When he removed them and met my eyes, the bleak, lost expression in his made me quail.
