“Beds are designed for sleeping. Couches are designed for regret naps.”
She snorts. “Fine. Let’s go inspect the sleeping situation.”
I should say no.
I should unpack and make sure this place is secure.
Instead, I follow her down the short hall, every sense strung tight.
There’s one door on the right—tiny bathroom with a shower stall, sink, and toilet. Straight ahead is the bedroom.
Lark pushes the door open with a dramatic flourish. “Ta-da.”
The bed is a queen. Clean sheets. One blanket. Two pillows. Nothing fancy, but it looks… soft. Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
There’s a small dresser, a lamp on the nightstand, and blackout curtains over the window. No TV. No clock. No electronics. Just four walls and a mattress big enough for two adults to lie very far apart.
Or not.
Lark turns around slowly, eyes sparkling. “Well, well, well.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“One bed,” she coos. “Tragic.”
“You’re taking it.”
Her brows lift. “Is that a command?”
“Yes.”
She bites the inside of her cheek, like she’s holding back a smile. “You gonna pin me down and make me obey, Knight?”
My brain shorts out for a second.
I picture it—the weight of her, the feel of her wrists under my hands, the way she’d arch and?—
Nope.
Abort.
“I’m not touching you,” I say, voice too tight. “You’re Gage’s little sister.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, we’re really still doing this?”
“Yes.”
“You know I’m an adult, right? Twenty-four. Tax-paying. Credit scored. Highly capable.”
“Doesn’t change who you are.”
“Then who am I?” she presses, stepping closer.
Too close.
I can see every detail—freckles across her nose, the smudge of eyeliner at the corner of her eye, the faint bruise at her wrist from the guard she clocked with the bat. She’s flushed from the drive, from adrenaline, from the fact that we’re hiding from an entire slice of the criminal underworld.
