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Bad idea.

Even that small sound sent a spike of pain straight through his temple.

He dragged in a slow breath and immediately regretted that too. His mouth tasted like stale whiskey. His tongue felt like it had been wrapped in sandpaper and left out in the sun.

He cracked one eye open.

Light speared in through an unadorned window — bright, unforgiving, and entirely too cheerful for the state he was in. He flinched, slamming it shut again with a low groan.

Memory came back in jagged flashes.

Bar.

Mercer.

Felicity—

Ah. Hell.

Ronan scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed the tender cut at his eyebrow. That explained the pounding. That and the whiskey. A lot of whiskey.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows — slowly this time — and blinked against the light until shapes started to form.

Not his place.

The room was small. Neat. Very neat. A narrow bed behind him, blanket half-dragged off from where he’d just taken a dive. A dresser. A chair. No clutter. No personality beyond clean lines and order.

Felicity’s place.

He remembered bits of the trip over.

Her threat. Puke in the vehicle and I’ll dump your ass on the side of the road.

Stumbling out of the Bronco. Nearly falling on the steps. Dogs milling around his legs.

And then … nothing.

He glanced down at himself. Still in yesterday’s clothes — shirt wrinkled, jeans stiff, boots …

On the floor at the end of the bed.

Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a cell.

Or the hospital — if Mercer had gotten a sharper blow in.

Ronan blew out a slow breath. “Good show, Murphy,” he muttered.

He braced a hand on the bed and pushed himself upright, dropping onto the mattress as the room tilted again, his vision swimming at the edges.

Yeah. Not moving fast today.

From somewhere deeper in the house came the grumble of a dog.

Then the memory of Mercer’s voice cut through it.

… like a bitch in heat …

Ronan’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists before he forced them to loosen again.