The air in the Sentinel Hall was unusually tense. You pressed yourself against Grant’s broad back, gripping the fabric of his uniform like it was a shield. Across the room, Griffin Cross stood near the kitchen island, his blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. His arms were crossed over his chest, the fingers of his onyxis hand tapping an impatient rhythm against his bicep.

Grant let out a long-suffering sigh. “Why are you hiding behind me?” He turned his head slightly, trying to get a glimpse of your face. “What did you do?”

“I—” You swallowed hard. “I might have… borrowed something.”

Grant raised a brow. “What kind of something?”

Griffin took a step forward, and you tightened your grip on Grant’s uniform. “Give it back.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made you rethink all your life choices.

“Technically, I didn’t steal it,” you tried to explain. “I just… relocated it temporarily?”

Griffin’s eyes darkened. “Where is it?”

You glanced toward the hallway, considering your options. Running wasn’t one of them—Griffin was too fast. Lying? Not an option either. Grant would see right through you. That left you with only one real choice. “Okay, so, hypothetically speaking…” You peeked over Grant’s shoulder. “If someone were to, I don’t know, misplace your combat knife, how mad would you be?”

Griffin’s jaw clenched. “You lost my knife?”

“Not lost! Just… misplaced,” you corrected quickly. “And in my defense, it’s really easy to lose track of small, sharp objects when you’re—”

“Where.” Griffin’s voice was flat.

You winced. “Remember when Elijah dared me to stick it in the ceiling like you do?”

Silence. Then, Grant sighed again, rubbing his temples.

Griffin exhaled sharply. “It’s still in the ceiling, isn’t it?”

You gave him a sheepish look. “...Maybe?”