“I need to see you.”
That makes me smile.
“My door would be open.”
CHAPTER 22
KENRON
The old hotel creaks like it remembers too much.
They call it theCrofton, though no one’s sure if that was its real name or just the last thing etched on the lobby's cracked glass. It’s been turned into a resistance safehouse—walls reinforced with salvaged armor plating, blackout shutters sealing the windows like eyelids shut tight in a dream no one wants to finish. Pulse-signal dampeners hum from every outlet, warping comms and scans into static.
And in the hallway, I wait.
Room 317.
I stand outside the door, heart thudding like it’s trying to crack through my ribs. My palms are sweaty. My throat’s tight. And I know she’s on the other side of that door.
I knock once.
No words.
The lock clicks. The door eases open.
And then she’s there.
Kristi.
Hair loose. Eyes dark. Wrapped in the same coat I left behind, worn over her shoulders like a promise she didn’t say out loud.
We don’t speak.
We don’t need to.
I step inside. The door clicks shut behind me.
And we crash.
Lips collide. Hands scramble. My back hits the wall and her mouth is already on mine, fierce and frantic, tasting like fire and memory. Her fingers hook into my collar, dragging it open with a sound that makes my breath stutter.
She pulls back just long enough to whisper, “Don’t stop.”
Never.
I grip her hips, lift her, press her to the wall like she’s the only thing keeping me upright. Her legs wrap around me, and we’re all grasping limbs and ragged breathing. She bites my bottom lip—hard—and I groan into her mouth, fingers sliding beneath her shirt to feel the heat of her skin.
“You’ve been gone too long,” she pants.
“You ran.”
“I had to.”
“I know.”
Another kiss. Deeper. Hungrier. Desperate in a way that tastes like goodbye, even though it isn’t.
Not this time.
