She throws the covers off. She doesn't shy away from her nudity this time. She stands up, unashamed, and reaches for the clothes.
"Where are we going?" she asks, pulling on the thermal shirt. It swallows her frame. She looks tiny. Fragile.
"Upstate," I say. "I have a cabin in the Adirondacks. It’s off the books. Solar power. Well water. No digital footprint."
She pulls on the pants. She has to roll the waistband three times to keep them up.
"And then?" she asks, sitting down to wrestle with the boots. "We just hide in the woods forever?"
I stop packing my bag. I walk over to her.
I kneel in front of her. I take the laces from her hands and tie them myself. I pull them tight, securing her feet.
"No," I say, looking up at her. "We regroup. We rearm. And then we go back and take what is ours."
"Ours," she repeats softly.
"Yes. Ours."
I stand up and pull her to her feet. She stumbles slightly in the heavy boots, but I catch her. I steady her.
"Listen to me, Ivy. This is not going to be comfortable. There will be no silk sheets. No chef. No hot showers on demand. We are going to be cold, hungry, and hunted."
I cup her face, forcing her to look at me.
"If you want to leave... if you want to walk out to the main road and flag down a police car... do it now. I can’t protect you if you’re fighting me. I need you with me. fully."
She searches my face. She looks at the scar. She looks at the desperation I’m trying so hard to hide.
She thinks about it. I can see the wheels turning. She could run. The Feds would take her into protective custody. She could testify against me. She could be free.
But then she looks at the ankle bracelet I locked on her yesterday. The platinum band that binds us.
"I shot a man yesterday," she whispers. "I can't go back to art school, Silas. I can't go back to pretending the world is nice. I don't fit there anymore."
She reaches out and grips the front of my tactical vest.
"I’m with you."
The relief that crashes through me is staggering. I kiss her hard, a brief, fierce collision of mouths.
"Good choice."
I hand her a knife. A jagged, serrated combat knife in a black sheath.
"Strap this to your belt."
She takes it. She doesn't flinch. She straps it on.
"Let’s go."
We emerge from the tunnel into the garage. The smell of smoke still hangs in the air from the attack yesterday.
Luca has the Bronco running. It’s an old, rusted beast of a truck, but the engine sounds like a tank.
"Ready?" Luca asks, eyeing Ivy’s oversized clothes with a skeptical look.
"Drive," I order, opening the back door for Ivy.
