He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s wildly unfair.”
I huff despite myself, the tension easing just a fraction. Unfurling ferns help me, the urge to preen is strong—too strong—but I shove it aside with effort.
“This place is not safe,” I say firmly. “We’re leaving. Now.”
He nods immediately, no argument, no hesitation. “Okay. Where?”
“Somewhere with walls,” I reply. “Lights. Humans. I don’t care.”
A motel, then.
The word forms fully in my mind, bringing with it a fresh wave of irritation and resolve. It means roads and keys and front desks and me shifting into a form I despise wearing for too long.
But Elias is shaken. Still processing. Still riding the edge of fear and trust. I won’t risk him again tonight.
“We’ll get a room,” I say.
He reaches out, fingers curling around my wrist, grounding me this time. “Okay, whatever you think we need to do. I trust you.”
The simple statement hits harder than any threat ever could. I nod once. “Then stay close.”
We move out together, my senses still flared, every step deliberate. The danger may have passed, but the aftershock lingers—charged, intimate, undeniable. I have to shift before getting back in the car, which puts me on edge, knowing I can’t protect him as well in this form.
But I do it for Elias. To keephimsafe.
As the lights of the small town come into view, I give it a quick appraisal. The town is small.
That’s my first assessment as we roll into it. It’s small, sleepy, the kind of place that exists because the road passes through and not much else. One main street, a handful of buildings, a diner with lights still on despite the late hour. It smells like oil and old wood and human habitation layered over land that remembers what it was before.
Elias sits quietly in the passenger seat.
Not withdrawn—just contained. His hands are folded in his lap, fingers worrying lightly at the edge of his jacket. His gaze tracks the passing storefronts, the flicker of neon, the way the dark presses close beyond the reach of streetlights.
I don’t like how shaken he still feels. I don’t like that something frightened him enough to linger like this. And I really don’t like how much I want to wrap him in my arms and promise that nothing will ever get close to him again.
He parks in front of the motel without asking my opinion. It’s functional. Two stories. Balconies that overlook the lot. Enough light to deter most things that prefer shadow.
“This okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say immediately. “This is good.”
I step out of the truck and shift before he can protest. Human form still settles over me like an ill-fitting coat—limiting, heavy, but necessary. I hate how much of myself I have to tuck away, how quiet everything becomes. But Elias is safe, and that matters more.
He steps out too, glancing around, then back at me. His eyes linger, dark and intent, tracking me with an awareness that tightens low in my belly.
We walk toward the front desk together, not touching, but close enough that our arms brush. The air between us hums.
The woman behind the counter barely looks up as I request a room. Her attention flicks between us just long enough to assess—two men, road-worn, tense—and then she slides a key across the counter without comment.
“Upstairs,” she says. “End unit.”
I take the key. Metal. Solid. A small, ordinary thing that feels strangely momentous in my hand.
Elias follows me up the stairs, his footsteps quiet. The walkway creaks beneath our combined weight. When I unlock the door and push it open, the room smells faintly of cleaner and old carpet.
Walls. A ceiling. A door that locks. Safety.
Elias exhales as soon as he steps inside, the sound shaky but relieved. He drops his pack near the bed and rubs his face with both hands, then looks at me like he’s suddenly unsure what to do next.
