Thorne pulls into the lot, parks in the back where the SUV isn’t visible from the road. He kills the engine. We sit in silence for a moment—the three of us, in an armored SUV in an Indiana parking lot, halfway between the firefight we survived and the war we’re driving toward.
“Thorne.”
“What?”
“Lily’s lucky. Having a father who’d drive into gunfire for strangers. Who’d cross the country to get home to her.”
His jaw tightens. But it’s not the cold tension from before. It’s something else.
“She’s the lucky one,” he says quietly. “I’m just trying to deserve her.”
He’s out of the vehicle before I can respond, already moving toward the motel office.
Cassie stirs in the back seat. “Are we stopped?”
“We’ve got a few hours to rest.” I help her out of the SUV, one arm around her waist.
She glances toward the motel office where Thorne disappeared. “His daughter. It explains a lot about him.”
“Yeah. It does.”
The room is like any other roadside motel—clean enough, quiet enough. It’ll do.
Cassie sinks onto the mattress while I lock the door behind us.
“Shirt off,” she says. “Let me check the dressing.”
I don’t argue.
She peels back the gauze, examining the wound with careful fingers. “It’s actually looking good. Healing clean, no signs of infection.” She applies fresh butterfly closures, layers new gauze, and tapes over it. “You got lucky.”
“I’ll take lucky.”
“What comes next?” she asks.
“Seattle. Then we figure out the rest.”
“What about after Phoenix?”
“After Phoenix, we figure out what we want. Not what we’re running from.”
She doesn’t answer. She shifts, her hand sliding up my jaw, her thumb dragging across my lower lip with a pressure that doesn’t ask permission. She turns my face toward hers, eyes dark and searching.
“We should rest.” I don’t pull back, even as my pulse thrashes against my skin.
“We should.” She leans in, her kiss tasting of heat and salt. “Thorne’s right next door.”
“Walls are paper-thin.” I grip her hip, my fingers digging into the denim of her jeans. “You want him hearing every sound you make?”
“Then make sure I don’t make any.”
She surges backward, pulling me down onto the bed. I don’t go willingly—I go hungrily, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other tangles in her hair, tilting her head back to expose the line of her throat.
She gasps against my ear as I bite at the sensitive skin of her shoulder.
I make a sound—a low, predatory rumble—and the vibration of it shatters her composure.
“Shh.”
