Logan's POV
"This isn't real."
The words are a whisper, a desperate plea thrown into the suffocating air of the club. The bass seems to swallow them whole.
"What isn't real?"
The voice comes from behind me. Male. Familiar in a way that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
I spin around. The dance floor is gone. The sticky floors, the pulsating lights, Odessa's cool hand on my arm— all gone.
I'm standing in a tastefully decorated bedroom. The walls are a cool grey, the furniture is modern and minimalist; a large bed with a dark wood frame, a sleek dresser, black-out curtains drawn against the evening. It's not my style, not really, but I recognize the layout. The dimensions of the room, the view of the city skyline through a gap in the curtains… this is my apartment. The one I haven't set foot in since I left Lykandor after…
