Raven went to her own room.
Not a decision—or not one she examined. Her feet took her down the corridor past his door and to hers, and she came through and sat on the edge of the bed and let the quiet settle around her.
The adrenaline had been doing the work for hours. She understood that. She had run on it through the freight corridor, through Isabella, through the south door and Dante and the medical bay and the corridor outside it and the two hours and eleven minutes after. She had run on it through the surgeon's report and the five minutes in Dante's room and the walk back through the mansion with Vincent's shoulder against hers.
It ran out now.
