Vincent was about Rogan’s age, handsome, dark brown hair, a square jaw, dark eyes, and the perfect amount of scruff on a dimpled chin—generations of all the right genes in all the right places. If I lunged at him, the bat-ape would tear me apart. Vincent rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I have to say this. You there, dashing male secretary! Drop the frying pan.” The pan clattered to the floor behind me. Vincent smiled. That languid, assured smile told me everything I needed to know: none of us would walk out of here alive.
nah, Rogan should be here any minute
