Someone thumped at the door. “Everly, open up.” It was Arran. I let him in. He burst inside, his dark-blond hair a mess I imagined at Genevieve’s hands, and his expression fraught where he looked his friend over. “Is he sick?” I touched my forehead in embarrassment then gestured to the sedative case. “Nope. I knocked him out and now I can’t get him back to our apartment. I messed up.” Arran stilled then pressed his fist to his mouth. Incredulity warred with amusement in his expression, but he fought to neutralise it. “Can he hear me?” At my nod, he addressed the prone man on the bed. “Listen
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