My pupils are dilated. Lips slightly parted. Breathing too fast. Arousal written across my face despite the fact that we’re about to be discovered by operatives who will kill us.
Inappropriate doesn’t begin to cover it.
I return to the main room.
“They’re down the hall,” he says. Low. Urgent. “Questioning the occupants.”
I can hear it now. Voices through the thin walls. Questions asked in clipped professional tones. Answers given hesitantly.
Footsteps in the hallway, closer now.
We both freeze.
The footsteps stop. Right outside.
I can hear breathing. At least two people. Maybe three.
“Human,” Jericho mouths. I feel my anxiety subside just a fraction. If they’re not shifter, they won’t have enhanced senses. Won’t pick up our scents or any tiny sounds we make.
He moves. Silent. Positions himself against the wall beside the door. I mirror him on the opposite side. If they come through, we’ll ambush them. It’s not a good plan, but it’s the only option we have.
The door handle rattles. Someone testing it.
Locked.
A low voice, barely audible. “Nothing in the register. Paid cash. Manager says they went out this morning.”
Another voice responds. “Check it.”
Three sharp knocks.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes.
“Room seven. Motel management. Need to verify occupancy for safety inspection.” The lie is obvious. But they’re trying to make us open the door willingly.
We do nothing.
I can hear them conferring again. Deciding whether to force entry or move on. Whether we’re inside or if this room really is empty.
The door handle rattles again. Harder this time.
“I say we kick it in,” one of them says.
My breath catches. The sound is small. Involuntary. Just a tiny gasp of fear or adrenaline or both. But in the silence, it’s loud enough.
Jericho moves on pure instinct. One step and he’s in front of me, his hand coming up to cover my mouth. Not rough. Just firm enough to muffle any sound. His other hand finds my hip, steadying me, keeping me quiet.
We stay like that. Still as statues.
His palm is warm against my lips. His body between me and the door. Both of us perfectly still while whoever is outside decides whether they heard something.
Time stretches. Endless. Unbearable.
His hand stays on my mouth. His thumb rests just below my ear, where my pulse hammers visibly. I’m sure he can feel it racing beneath his touch. Can feel how my breath comes too fast against his palm through flaring nostrils.
The footsteps move. Not away. Just shifting position. Someone walking the perimeter of the building, checking windows, maybe. Looking for evidence of occupancy.
Jericho doesn’t move his hand. I don’t try to pull away.
