Doren sat against the wall, facing the door, with his long legs splayed across the hallway. His eyes were unfocused, vacant; he stared with the absent gaze of a drug addict.
August slammed the door and locked it, overcome with a ferocious wave of anger and betrayal. He would not open that door again. Not to that bastard. This had been the worst night of his life and he would never go through something like that again. Ever! First Morana, then Doren, then Anton—then Anton and Morana in pair, and what the hell? What the actualhell! He was sick of them, sick of all their games and all their…whatever the hell that had been. He was not going to be their puppet, or their toy, or their punching bag! But mostly? More than anything? He was not going to feel sorry for that creep out in the hall.
Even in if Doren had looked like total crap. Even if Doren had looked like a beaten puppy. And had that been blood on Doren’s hands?