We trudge back outside, and Bones grabs my bag and a backpack of his own from the bike. I try to take mine, but he just gives me a look that says, not happening and starts toward the stairs.
Room 237 is exactly what you’d expect from a roadside motel in North Carolina: dated furniture, questionable carpet, and a truly spectacular painting of a lighthouse that looks like it was purchased at a going-out-of-business sale in 1987.
Also, inexplicably, there are heart-shaped throw pillows on the bed.
And—oh god—is that a mirror on the ceiling?
“Are we in a honeymoon suite?” I ask, staring up at my damp, raccoon-eyed reflection.
Bones follows my gaze and lets out an actual laugh. “Looks like it.”
“Why does a random motel off I-85 have a honeymoon suite?”
“Maybe it’s romantic?” He sets our bags down, looking around at the red velvet curtains and the champagne bucket that’s currently housing a dead fly. “In a ‘murdered by your spouse’ kind of way.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Very romantic.”
“You should shower first,” he says, nodding toward the bathroom. “Warm up. I’ll figure out food. Order a pizza.”
My instinct is to argue—he’s just as soaked and cold as I am—but my teeth are already chattering, and the promise of hot water is borderline holy.
“OK. Thanks.”
The bathroom is small but clean, with those tiny soaps wrapped in paper and towels that have been washed about ten thousand times. I lock the door—not because I think Bones would intrude, but because I need the boundary—and peel off my wet clothes.
They hit the tile floor with a disgusting squelch.
I turn on the shower as hot as it’ll go and step under the spray, letting it beat down on my shoulders and back. The warmth is immediate and blissful, and for a solid five minutes I just stand there, eyes closed, trying to process everything that’s happened.
Got kidnapped. Got rescued. Fought with Bones about the tracker. Had the best sex of my life with said Bones. Ran away. Had a panic attack at the airport. Accepted a ride to New York from the man I’m furious with but also can’t seem to stay away from.
Cool. Normal. Very well-adjusted behavior.
I wash my hair with the tiny motel shampoo—it smells like generic ‘ocean breeze,’ which is to say, chemicals—and try to figure out what the hell I’m doing.
This morning I was so sure. Get away from Stoneheart, away from Bones, back to my real life where things make sense.
Except standing under the shower in this ridiculous honeymoon suite, my body feels loose in a way it hasn’t in months. Like something that’s been wound too tight finally exhaled. Which makes no sense. I should feel tense. Scared. I was kidnapped less than a day ago.
But instead I feel . . . alive.
I shake my head, flinging droplets. It’s just adrenaline. Endorphins from being around Bones after a night of insane sex. My body trying to cope with trauma by focusing on the fucking instead of the facts. Tomorrow I’ll be back in my studio apartment, back at the barre, and this will all feel like a fever dream.
Except I can’t stop thinking about the way his voice cracked when I asked why he went against Stone’s orders. About the way he chose me over his president’s direct command.
The same way he’s been choosing me for thirteen years.
I turn off the water and grab a towel, wrapping it around myself. My reflection in the mirror is slightly less raccoon-like now, but my eyes are still red-rimmed and my hair is a mess.
And somewhere under my left shoulder blade is a GPS tracker.
I turn, trying to catch sight of it in the mirror—crane my neck, twist my torso—but the angle’s all wrong. There’s no scar. Nothing visible at all. But I remember the day it happened now, the memory unfurling like film pulled taut.
Bones and I were sitting in the sunshine during one of his random check-ins. I’d just finished rehearsal and was stretching on the grass. Then something bit me.
At least, that’s what I thought. A sharp sting, a yelp, a slap at the air. When I checked, there’d only been a faint red dot. No bump, no welt, nothing that suggested anything more sinister than an angry insect. I’d forgotten about it immediately—because why wouldn’t I? I was with the guy who always protected me. There was no reason to even consider it could have been something else.
I trusted him.
