Page 91 of Torin

I smile into the pillow.

Okay. Maybe I’m not that content to lie here after all.

I throw back the duvet.

A minute later, I’m pulling on yesterday’s jeans and a clean T-shirt, twisting my hair into a loose ponytail before heading into the hallway.

Orson’s door is wide open, the lair exposed, but Torin’s is still closed.

I go into the kitchen. The container I left on the table last night is empty in the sink, and a little flicker of satisfaction runs through me.

He ate it, every scrap.

I fill the kettle and set it on the stove. When it whistles, I reach into the cupboard and take down two mugs.

A few minutes later, I’m standing outside Torin’s bedroom with a coffee in each hand.

I nudge the door gently with my foot.

“Torin?”

No answer.

I knock with my elbow. “Morning.”

A low groan comes from inside.

“Torin?”

“Yeah.”

His voice sounds rough.

“You awake?”

“Debatable.”

I smile. “I brought coffee.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

I reach awkwardly for the handle without spilling either mug. “Can I come in?”

“Course.”

I push the door open.

The curtains are still half drawn, leaving the room cool and dim. Torin is lying on top of the duvet with one arm over his eyes.

“I come bearing caffeine.”

He lowers his arm.

I stop in the doorway.

One side of his face is a mess of bruises. His left eye is swollen almost shut, the skin around it dark purple, and his lower lip is split. A cut runs along his cheekbone.

“Oh my God.”