She whispers, "You're asking me to trust you with my whole life."
"No," I murmur. "You already did when you ran to me tonight. You chose me in that lot. I'm giving you the plan that keeps you alive."
Silence hangs like a held breath. Her chin trembles. Her voice is paper thin. "Okay." The word is barely there. "Just… until I'm safe. Then we can undo it." She swallows, the last of her volume dropping away. "Don't—please don't make me regret this."
I nod once. "That's understood. Nothing happens without your say."
Her stare stays locked on mine. Dark. Pupils blown the same way they were last night. Then she looks down at her hands, afraid of what I'll see if she doesn't.
"What do you need from me?"
"No lying," I say instantly. "No disappearing. You follow my instructions. You stick with me."
A trembling nod. "Okay."
"Good," I murmur.
The room hums. Heater rattles. Fridge ticks. Some TV two doors down bleeds bad dialogue through thin walls. I let the silence stand. Let her breathe in it.
"You should sleep," I say eventually.
She glances at the bed, then at me. "I won't be able to."
"Try. I'll be awake. Door locked. Nothing gets past me."
"You've done enough," she protests weakly. "You don't have to sit up all night."
"Yeah, I do."
She wants to argue but doesn't have the energy. She kicks off her boots and moves deeper onto the bed, never turning fully away from me. Curls on her side, facing the door, hands tucked to her chest as if she's expecting someone to rip them away.
I drag the crap chair closer to the door and drop into it. The frame creaks under my weight. I plant my boots. One hand rests on my thigh. The other digs into my bag and finds the Glock I packed in Chicago. It settles on my knee, within reach.
She watches me. "You're really going to sit there?"
"Yeah."
She huffs a tiny, broken almost-laugh. "You're insane."
"Probably," I say. "Go to sleep, Sloane."
Her lashes lower, as if it hurts to let go of control. Her breathing is uneven at first, catching every few seconds as adrenaline fights exhaustion. Eventually, it deepens.
I sit in the semi-dark, watching the door, listening to the motel breathe. Cars come and go. Pipes groan. Someone laughs too loudly on the walkway outside, then stumbles on. My thoughts drift south. Mississippi. Willowridge. Malachi. I picture his reaction when I roll into the yard with a shell-shocked woman in my passenger seat and a marriage plan in my back pocket.
I've done some reckless things for this club. For our town. For Malachi.
The courthouse paperwork runs through my head. The way her name will look on the line beside mine. Sloane Mercer scratched out in some system and replaced with Sloane Turner. The pen won't shake when I sign it.
Dawn drags gray light across the ceiling, peeling the shadows loose. My neck aches from the chair. My legs are stiff. On the bed, Sloane is a small, tangled shape near the middle. One hand tucked under her cheek, hair a dark spill across the pillow. At some point in the night, the tension eased enough to hint at what she might look like without fear carved into it.
Confusion crosses her expression as she blinks awake. She finds me first. Sweeps over the chair, my posture, the gun still within reach. Then her gaze drags up to mine and holds.
"So it wasn't a dream," she says hoarsely.
"Nope."
She pushes up, hair falling across her cheek. "You look like you should be dead."
