“Dean’s going to love that,” she mutters.
“Dean will survive,” I say. “We just leveled up from sitting ducks to moving targets. Different kind of problem. We’re better at those.”
She glances at me, eyes searching my profile. “You okay?” she asks softly. “Really?”
I keep my gaze on the road, the wheel steady in my hands. “I had a guy call me by my real name and try to stab me in my own murder cabin,” I say. “I’m somewhere between furious and focused. We’re going to make Luka regret every Bitcoin he put on our heads.”
Her grip tightens on my arm. “Good,” she says. “Because I’m not done making plans with you.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Plans, huh?” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “Starting with: survive the night. Then: find a place to crash that doesn’t come with complimentary assassins. Then: call Dean and Arrow and give them so much shit.”
“Ambitious,” I say.
“You love that about me,” she reminds me.
I do.
More than I’ve ever loved anything.
I flick the headlights on once we’ve put enough distance between us and the cabin, the beam cutting through the trees, turning the road from shadow to something navigable.
The vehicle barrels into the dark, tires eating up the miles.
Behind us, somewhere in the forest, Viktor Luka’s hired guns are regrouping around a busted cabin with four very unhappy colleagues on the floor.
Ahead of us?
Every uncertain, dangerous mile between here and whatever comes next.
We’re on the run now.
Not hiding.
Not waiting.
Moving.
Lark shifts closer, hip pressed against mine, hand still on my arm like she’s anchoring us both.
“Hey, Knight?” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Let’s make them beg,” she murmurs.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, eyes on the road, heart locked on the girl beside me. “Oh, Birdie,” I say. “That’s the plan.”
EIGHTEEN
CASH ONLY
LARK
We roll into the kind of roadside hotel that looks like it’s seen three divorces, a meth bust, and at least one ghost who refuses to move on out of spite.
Perfect.
