The night air in Sierra's small apartment was thick with a silence that Theron hadn't experienced in years.
Theron lay on the sofa, his massive frame draped in the pink, sparkly blanket that Sierra had insisted was her "warmest and luckiest." His feet hung off the end of the cushions, and his head was propped up on a pillow that featured a cartoon cat with a grumpy expression. He looked entirely out of place, a lethal, 6'5" sentinel of a dragon-blooded house resting in a space designed for someone half his density and twice his optimism.
He could have gone anywhere.
That thought kept circling back.
There were dozens of luxury hotels within ten minutes of here, places with soundproof walls, private security, king-sized beds that could actually fit him without his feet hanging off the edge.
So why hadn't he?
His jaw tightened slightly as he stared at the tiny crack in the ceiling.
Because those places were silent in the wrong way.
They were empty.
