Bastian’s silhouette shifts to the nightstand. A glow lights up the room as he checks his phone. “Half-past eight. We slept the entire fucking day.”
My stomach drops at the harsh tone in his voice. “Is there anything about this storm?”
“I’ll let you know,” Bastian murmurs as he scrolls through his phone.
“Can’t be too bad,” Kai says as he reaches over to flip on the lamp on his nightstand. “Power’s still on.”
“I’ve got backup,” Bastian says without taking his eyes off his phone.
“That Land Rover of yours can handle snow, right?” Kai says through a yawn. His back clicks as he stretches his arms and arches.
“Yes, but it seems roads are impassable.”
“Even for your?—”
“Even for the Landie,” Bastian cuts in with a flat voice.
Kai sits up beside me, wincing as his injured leg shifts. “So we’re stuck.”
“For now,” Bastian says, perching on the edge of the mattress, facing the windows. “The storm cleared up this morning for a few hours. Sounds like it’ll happen around the same time tomorrow.”
Shit.
We should have gotten out of bed this morning. Should have moved, should have run, should have donesomething. Instead, we spent it sleeping off our orgasms.
Rooke still hasn’t discussed his plan with us, but I’m on the same page as Kai. We both assume he wants us to run. How far, and for how long, is probably what he thinks we won’t like to hear.
I’m hoping it’s negotiable. Not the running—I’m actually looking forward to that. But I’d like at least some say in where I end up.
The three of us sit in the darkness, listening to the wind howl outside. It sounds angry, like it knows what we did and wants to bury us for it.
“We should eat,” I say, because if I don’t do something, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. “Is there anything in the kitchen?”
Bastian’s already moving toward the door. “I’ll make something. You two rest.”
“Like hell.” Kai throws off the covers and limps after him, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood. “I’m not just sitting here like a fucking invalid.”
I follow them both, wrapping Bastian’s cashmere throw around my shoulders like a cape.
Kai slumps into a chair at the kitchen island, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. I perch on the stool beside him, pulling the throw tighter.
Bastian takes eggs from the fridge, bread from the pantry, a cast-iron skillet from somewhere beneath the counter. He cooks like he does everything else—precise, controlled, utterly competent.
I watch his hands and try not to think about the blood those hands washed off me last night.
The memories must have crept back in while I slept, because I remembereverything.
“So,” Kai says, breaking the silence. “What’s it feel like having dinner with a couple of fugitives, Rooke?”
Bastian doesn’t turn around. “Innocent until proven guilty, boy.”
Kai scoffs. “Seriously, though. I think we need a better plan than ‘run and hope no one catches us.’ My passport’s in that house somewhere, I don’t even know where.”
“I don’t even have a passport,” I admit grudgingly.
He cracks an egg into the skillet with one hand. “We don’t need passports.”
Kai glances my way. I’m not the only one who noticed the ‘we’ in that statement.
