Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. He weaves through traffic, taking side streets, alleys, routes that make no sense. Anti-surveillance driving on a motorcycle. The city blurs—lights and shadows and speed compressing into one long streak of survival.
My hands start to slip. Blood and sweat making grip impossible. Vision swimming from pain and possible concussion.
He covers one of my hands with his, pressing it firm against his stomach. “Stay with me.”
Not a request. Command.
I hold tighter. Vision swimming. But I don’t let go.
Can’t let go.
He’s the only solid thing in a world that’s become chaos and death and equations that don’t balance.
FOUR
Talia
EXTRACTION
The motorcycle tearsthrough Chicago streets, the engine growling between my thighs, every vibration crawling up my spine. My arms wrap around Jackson’s waist, uncertain how close is too close, how much of him I’m allowed to feel.
We hit a pothole. The world jolts. My grip slips—just for a heartbeat—until his hand leaves the handlebars, finds my wrists, and yanks them tight around him.
“Hold on!” he shouts over the roar. “Tight. Lean when I lean.”
He presses my palms flat against his abdomen, trapping them there. Muscle, solid and unyielding, flexes beneath my touch. Heat burns through cotton and leather, through logic and fear. Every inhale fills my lungs with the scent of him—metal, smoke, rain, and man.
My chest molds to his back, each shift of his body sending a rush of motion through mine. He moves like the bike is an extension of him—fluid, precise, powerful. I can feel it in the wayhis muscles coil and release, in the steady control beneath the chaos.
He’s all motion and command, danger and safety in the same breath.
And I can’t tell if my pulse is racing from the ride—or from him.
We bank right. Instinct makes me want to stay upright, but his hand drops back, finds my thigh, pulls me into the turn with him. The contact is electric. My body molds against his, thighs bracketing his hips, chest sealed to his back, arms locked around his waist like he’s the only solid thing in a tilting world.
This is necessary. Purely functional. Motorcycle safety.
But my body doesn’t understand that. Every point of contact burns. His back muscles shift under my palms as he navigates traffic. The bike vibrates between my legs, and I’m pressed so tight against him I can feel his heartbeat. Steady. Controlled. Nothing like the rapid flutter of mine.
He takes another corner, sharp enough that my thigh presses hard against his hip. This time I lean with him, bodies moving in sync, and his hand briefly covers mine on his stomach—approval, maybe, or just making sure I won’t let go.
The intimacy is overwhelming. Nathan never wanted me this close except during sex, and even then, it felt like distance. This is different—a necessary contact that feels unnecessarily intense.
My ribs scream with every breath. Blood from my palms has soaked through his jacket, leaving rust-colored patches I hope he won’t notice. The wind whips my hair into a tangle, carrying the taste of exhaust and distant rain.
Something catches my eye in the side mirror. I turn, looking over my shoulder to catch a better view—a black SUV, three cars back. The bike wobbles dangerously.
“Don’t!” Jackson’s hand shoots back, grabs my hip, and yanks me forward. The bike straightens. “Never look back. You’ll dump us.”
But I already saw enough. The SUV is maintaining perfect distance. Too perfect.
Jackson revs the engine and takes a sudden right without signaling. I risk a glance in the mirror. The SUV follows.
A second black vehicle emerges from a side street ahead, timing too convenient to be a coincidence. Jackson sees it. His muscles coil beneath my arms.
“Hold tight!” he shouts.
He banks hard left into an alley, barely wide enough for the bike. The vehicles can’t follow—too narrow. But they’ll circle around and try to cut us off.
