Dane's POV:
I've been sitting here for twenty minutes.
The chair keeps swiveling under me, cheap and too small, its plastic edge biting into my thighs every time I shift, the edge pressing awkwardly into my legs, forcing me to sit hunched like a damn schoolboy.
A lavender-scented candle near the monitor stands there, the wax pooled unevenly. Another sits unlit beside it, label peeling. There's a pale pink pen holder stuffed with highlighters, a chipped mug with a cartoon heart on it, and a folded throw blanket I picked for her, draped over the back of the chair she should be sitting in.
Where the fuck are you, Rain?
The comm on my shoulder crackles.
"Captain," Jake says, barely containing his amusement.
"The subject's been taken into surgery. Voss says he tried to grab a doctor. Got punched in the nuts for it. Soon as he's out, we're moving him to a holding cell."
"He got what?" The disbelief slips out before I can stop it.
