I hadn’t even noticed. My hands were trembling. Adrenaline come-down. I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to steady.
“Yeah,” I said. “Guess I am.”
He hesitated, then reached out and covered my hand with his.
“We’re okay,” he murmured. “You got us out.”
I didn’t answer. Because we’re okay sounded too close to a lie. Marcus wasn’t dead, but the Guild wouldn’t let this slide. They’d come after us, and it was my fault.
We ditched the van behind a rusted chain-link fence a few streets away and found a small roadside motel.
“Vacancy” blinked in half-dead neon above the office door. The man behind the counter didn’t even look up from his magazine when I paid in cash.
Room key in hand, we climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hallway smelled faintly of mildew and air freshener.
When I unlocked the door, the light flickered on to reveal threadbare carpet and a sagging double bed.
“Five stars,” Simon murmured, stepping inside.
I let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
I quickly drew all the dark curtains shut, double-checking every edge to make sure not a sliver of sunlight could slip through. The thought of even a stray beam touching him made my chest tighten.
When I turned back, Simon was sitting on the edge of the bed, pale in the dim light, watching me with that quiet, trusting look that always undid me.
His head fell into his hands for a second, shoulders shaking. He wasn’t crying, Simon was just spent.
I stood there for a long moment, staring. My chest hurt with how much I wanted to cross the room, to touch him, to just make sure he was real.
Instead, I walked to the bathroom sink and splashed cold water over my face. The mirror above it was cracked, the glass warping my reflection.
My knuckles were bruised. There was dried blood on my sleeve. I didn’t know whose it was.
What have I done?
The Guild would come for me. For him. We’d crossed a line tonight, one you didn’t walk back from.
When I closed my eyes, all I saw was Simon. His pale throat, the way he’d said thank you like it meant something sacred. And I knew I’d do it all over again.
“Kit?”
I looked up. Simon was leaning against the bathroom doorway, watching me. His jacket was gone, shirt collar rumpled, dark hair mussed from running his hands through it.
He looked fragile in the washed-out light and still, somehow, unshakably steady.
“You should sleep,” I said quietly.
“I will. In a moment.”
He crossed the room, close enough that I caught the faint metallic tang of blood still clinging to his skin. His gaze dropped to my hands.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not,” I blurted.
But he took my hand anyway, his thumb brushing over the torn skin on my knuckles. His touch was impossibly gentle.
“I still can’t believe you chose me over them,” he murmured.
