You can’t see yourself cross it; you only notice, afterward, that you’re standing on the other side.

I noticed it in that hallway, with Camden’s fist hammering the oak eight feet away and my own pulse steady as a clock.

Whatever hold he’d had on me had required my participation, and somewhere in the last day I had quietly withdrawn it, and without it he was just a man on a porch making noise.

I opened the door.

Camden’s smirk went first.