Deadbolt. Chain. Chair under the handle.
All of it.
Then I stand there, staring at my masterpiece of motel-room security like cheap furniture and panic are suddenly a survival strategy.
Great.
Fantastic.
This is my life now.
Room twelve smells like old carpet, bleach, and bad decisions. The lamp on the nightstand throws yellow light across one bed with a brown comforter, one tiny table, two mismatched chairs, and a television bolted to the wall like someone once tried to save it from itself.
The curtains are closed, but they’re thin enough that red neon leaks around the edges. Every few seconds, the VACANCY sign outside flickers, and the room blinks red.
Like a warning.
Like a heartbeat.
Like the universe has decided subtlety is overrated.
I press both palms against my thighs and force myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Normal people breathe all the time. I can absolutely do this.
Except normal people did not spend the last hour spying on a villa, getting grabbed in a garden, being shot at, and riding down a mountain on the back of a motorcycle with a man called Shadow.
A man whose real name is Jayce.
Jayce.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
We are not thinking about the way his name sounded in his own mouth. Low. Rough. Like something private he didn’t give away often.
We are also not thinking about his hands.
Or his shoulders.
Or the way he looked at me like I was something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
I’m in a motel room with a stranger.
A biker stranger.
A violent, terrifying, weirdly calm biker stranger who shoved me on his motorcycle and told me Landon was already hunting me.
My stomach turns.
Landon.
His voice on the terrace comes back so sharply I feel cold all over again.
