We hit the road again. Her eyes drift closed, but not before they track to me one more time. Checking I'm still here. Still watching.
Sunlight catches the faint freckles across her nose, the bruised shadows beneath her eyes. Her hand rests palm-up on her thigh, fingers relaxed, vulnerable in a way she'd never allow awake.
My jaw locks. My knuckles go white on the wheel.
Somewhere near the state line, a battered green sign flashes past. The top line reads Leaving Illinois. The bottom says Kentucky. Might as well say Somewhere Else.
I glance at her. One more state line crossed. One more thread cut.
Out loud, I just say, "We're getting closer."
She blinks awake and turns toward me, eyes still soft with sleep. Then awareness kicks in, and she straightens, putting distance between us even though we're already in separate seats.
"Closer to what?"
"To the territory," I say. "Mine, for now. Your safest option until we know what we're up against."
She studies my profile, trying to decide if I mean it.
I do.
Chapter 5
Sloane
Knoxkeepsmeslightlyahead of him as we climb out of the car. He's half a step behind and to my right, his hand hovering near the small of my back without landing. Every instinct I have screams not to trust this, not to lean into him. My body leans anyway.
Inside the hotel lobby, yellow light hums overhead. A fake plant in the corner wilts under it. Warm, stale perfume hides the bleach. The clerk flips a pen with the energy of someone who wanted to go home a half-hour ago.
Knox reads the lobby in seconds: entrances, elevators, cameras, reflections. He's reading threats while I'm memorizing the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders cut the lobby in half.
The clerk glances up. "One room left," he says, tapping the keyboard. "King bed."
Heat floods my face, then my chest, then lower. Last night he didn't sleep. For me. But tonight is different. We're hours farther from Chicago. Far enough that real sleep might be possible. In that bed. Next to me.
The image hits before I can stop it: his body stretched out beside mine, close enough for his warmth to reach me. What if I can't stop myself? What if I reach for him in the dark and he lets me?
Knox catches the hitch in my breath, the way my fingers dig into my sleeves. He eases closer without touching me.
"We'll take it," he says.
Knox puts cash on the counter, gives a clean and practiced alias, then motions me forward where he can watch me.
The carpet in the dim hallway swallows our footsteps.
Don't collapse into him. You already did. Don't look at him like he's safety when you know better.
At the door to Room 217, his hand skims my lower back just enough to angle me aside while he enters first. My stomach clenches, heat spreading from the point of contact.
He sweeps the room: bathroom, corners, curtains, latch. Automatic, practiced moves.
There are bland white sheets, dull art bolted to the wall, a single chair, and a king bed that feels like a loaded gun. He sets his bag on the chair, draws the Glock, and places it on the nightstand within reach of the headboard.
"You take the bed," he says. "I'll take the chair."
No. Instant, sharp, gut-level.
"No. Not tonight."
