Chapter Sixty
Andre's Point of View
"So," Ian said at last, breaking the heavy silence that had settled in Dylan's study, "either one of you care to tell me why you're both so roughed up?"
The room smelled faintly of old books, aged leather, and the lingering bitterness of coffee that had been sitting untouched for far too long. Night had crept in unnoticed, casting shadows across the tall shelves and the heavy desk that had seen more secrets than most people ever would. We'd only just settled in—Dylan behind his desk, posture stiff despite his attempt at ease, and me stretched out lazily in one of the armchairs opposite him—when Ian finally voiced the obvious.
Dylan shot me an apologetic look, the kind that silently said *don't start*.
Naturally, I did.
I responded with a slow, lazy smirk.
"Is this some sort of inside joke?" Ian continued, eyes narrowing as he looked between us. "Because if it is, I'm not laughing."
