Cory startles awake, sputtering, “What—who?” Then he rubs at his eyes. “What’s the deal, Lo?” “The deal,” Logan says in a deadly calm tone that makes me shiver, “is you’re gonna get your arse back to the flat, pack up your shit and go home. You’re done.” Oh crap. “No, Cory—you don’t have to do that—it’s not your fault.” I tell Logan, “It’s not his fault.” But Logan doesn’t even look at me. He’s staring daggers at poor Cory. Jagged, bloody daggers. “You’re gonna want to move now, mate, or you won’t like how I’ll move you.”
