"Flattering." I pause. "We still going through with this?"
She looks down at her hands, then up. Her gaze is clearer than last night. Still scared. Still shaken. But her jaw is set.
"You said you had a plan," she says quietly. "I don't have one. So… yes. We're doing it."
I nod once. "Here's the order of operations. We get out of Illinois. We put hours and miles between you and last night. When we hit Mississippi, we file what we need to file. Then you stop being Mercer."
"And start being Turner," she murmurs.
I stand, and her eyes track the movement, lingering a second too long on my chest before snapping to mine. Her cheeks flush. She looks away. But I saw it.
My mouth curves. "Yeah. That's the idea."
She tests it under her breath, barely audible. "Sloane Turner."
My stomach tightens. I didn't expect two words to land that hard.
"Knoxville Turner," I say, because she deserves the truth. "That's the full version, if you want to regret signing up for this."
Her brows kick up. "Your full name is Knoxville?"
"Don't make it a thing," I warn.
She stares at me, expression caught between disbelief and warmth.
I huff a quiet laugh. "You marry me, not the name. The name's just the paperwork."
She presses her lips together and drops her gaze, fingers twisting in the sheet. "Right."
The word lands heavier than it should.
"We'll grab coffee, gas, and go. You want the bathroom first?"
She nods. "Yeah. Thank you." My chest catches on those two words.
I send a quick, encrypted message to Malachi. Her name, the situation in broad strokes, what I need ready when we arrive. I'd rather not fire signals this early, but we'll need groundwork started. The water cuts off. A minute later, she emerges. Her hair is damp, face scrubbed bare. She looks younger. More breakable. The bare skin makes the shadows under her eyes darker, the freckles sharper.
She pauses at the threshold, glances back once. At the version of herself that walked in last night. Then she steps out.
We're rolling five minutes later; the sun drags itself over the horizon in streaks of dull gold and weak blue. The highway opens ahead with clean gray lines and exit signs that don't mean anything yet. I spot her watching me in the side mirror.
When I adjust my hold on the wheel, she tracks the motion. When I glance her way, she turns to the window too fast. But I saw it.
"How far is Mississippi?" she asks eventually.
"Twelve hours if you drive straight through," I say. "We won't. We'll break it up."
She inclines her head. "And your town?"
"Small. Tight. Everyone knows everyone. Outsiders don't stay unnoticed long."
"And you're… what? The security detail?" There’s wryness under the exhaustion.
"Something like that. I run point for The Outsiders. They run the town."
"The Outsiders," she says, testing the word.
"Yeah."
