“Is she here?” Violet asked.

“Sara? No.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “What about you? Do your parents know you’re here?”

Violet shook her head. If her parents had their way, she didn’t know when she’d have the chance to see him—or anyone on the team—again. “I just . . . I just wanted to make sure you were . . . okay.”

He shoved away from the door as he took a long stride toward her, letting the door slam behind him. “I should be asking you the same thing,” he said, cringing, his voice filled with concern.

Violet knew how she looked. The bruise on her cheek had turned a strange combination of green, yellow, and purple. The swelling had gone down, but not enough for anyone else to notice. “I’m fine.” She hedged and then tried to shrug it off. “If you like bar-fight chic.”

His face darkened. “I wasn’t really talking about what’s on the outside.”

“You mean, like, it’s what’s on the inside that counts?”

Rafe grimaced, the ghost of a smile finding his lips. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds sort of . . .”

“Sweet?”

“I was gonna say lame. But, yeah, I guess that works too.”

“Yeah? Well, you look . . .” She was going to say better, but she practically stumbled over the word. He looked anything but better. If she looked beat-up, he looked downright thrashed. Even behind the bandages, Violet could see scrapes and mottled skin. “Terrible. You look terrible.” She moved closer to him on the landing as he unlocked the closed door. “But better than the last time I saw you, I guess.”

Rafe tried to laugh, but winced and grabbed his ribs. “Damn, V, I wouldn’t plan on a career in nursing if I were you; your bedside manner stinks.” His eyes clouded over when he saw her stroking the black onyx hanging from around her neck. “Krystal?” he asked.

“For protection,” Violet clarified.

“Um, yeah, I got one too. Mine’s for healing.” He tugged at the silver chain around his neck. He held up an irregular-looking stone that had been tucked beneath his shirt. It was cloudy—opaque—and Violet wondered at the mystical qualities Krystal believed it possessed. “I meant it’s from Krystal. Right?”

“Oh, yeah . . . right.” She nodded, realizing she’d misunderstood his question.

He let her inside and she followed him into the vestibule as he pressed the button in front of an ancient-looking elevator.

Grinding and shuddering, the elevator sputtered to a stop at the ground floor, the door opening loudly. Violet hesitated. “Are you sure that thing’s safe? Looks sorta sketchy.”

Rafe winked at her, holding his hand out mockingly. “After you.”

She wasn’t wrong; the elevator was sketchy. The thing just felt old, unstable beneath her feet. It was smaller than the more modern elevators in the high-rises around the city. Cramped and dark, like being trapped inside a coffin.

She shifted nervously. “You know, a little exercise never hurt anyone.”

Rafe pressed the button and then leaned casually against the railing, shoving his hands in his pockets as he studied her. “It’s five floors up. You can walk if you want, but I’ll take my chances.”

The elevator started upward, jerking unsteadily and making screeching and grating sounds that couldn’t possibly mean anything good. “If this thing goes down, I’m totally blaming you,” Violet insisted, gripping the worn brass handrail on her side.

“Are you gonna freak out every time you come over? It’s just an elevator, V,” Rafe criticized.

“What makes you think I’m coming over again?” she shot back, leaving him behind in the elevator the moment the doors slid open.

Once inside the hallway, Violet could only see one door on the entire floor: a large, arched door that was coated in layers of peeling black paint. Without inviting her to follow, Rafe brushed past her to open it, leading the way inside.

Again, Violet was taken aback by what she saw, wondering what it was exactly that she’d expected.

The place he shared with Sara practically oozed urban charm. It was the kind of high-ceilinged loft Violet had always imagined in places like New York or San Francisco, yet somehow never imagined so close to home in Seattle. There were visible rafters and ductwork, tall exposed brick walls, and dark wood floors that practically gleamed. It was spacious in the same way the Center was spacious, but that was where the similarities between the two ended.

Unlike the Center, with its modern, high-tech, officey feel, Sara and Rafe’s loft was definitely a home. The kitchen had been remodeled—or more likely had been built from scratch—and looked like something out of a kitchen design magazine. There were granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and low-hanging pendant lights enclosed in amber-colored glass that gave off a soft, inviting glow. Even the furniture, although modern, with low backs and squared corners, was warm and inviting, upholstered in shades of rich red and gold and brown.

“Wow,” Violet breathed. “I can’t believe you live here.” This was a far cry from her Buckley farmhouse.

“Wait’ll you see the view.” He started to reach for her hand, and then drew back quickly. “C’mon, it’s sort of incredible,” he explained, leading her toward the giant windows that overlooked the city below.

Joining him, Violet could see buildings and bridges, and train tracks and traffic, stretching all the way down to the waterfront. She wanted to stay there until the sun went down. To watch as the sky darkened and lights all over Seattle flickered on, taking on a life of their own.