Page 3 of The Shadow Sanctum

“Is everything all right?”

I nod, though I’m not sure he can see me. My throat is oddly heavy as I crawl backward and hold up the screw.

“Yes, of course.” Good God, I sound like I swallowed a toad. “I’m just searching for the proper place for this.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Sanchez bounces from the bed with the eagerness of a person who’s sat on a scorpion. It’s so abrupt, I’m a breath shy of flinching when he approaches. He takes the screw from my hand, inspects it, then drops his eyes to the table leg.

He lifts the table up by the leg and twists the protective, black cap. Sure enough, it reveals an empty hole for the screw.

In the first place he looked.

Hairs raise on the back of my neck, though I don’t know why that’s suspicious. I shake my head of the thought and go to put the screw back in the hole. But I’m stopped as Mr. Sanchez pulls the cap off the rest of the way.

Rolled notebook paper slides from the hollowed leg and slaps softly against the floor. Dozens of men have stayed in this room, yet in an instant, I know whose it is.

“Clever hiding spot.” Mr. Sanchez pops the cap back into place and twists the screw to secure it while I carefully pick up the paper.

It makes a dry rustling sound, like leaves crumbling as I unroll it. The paper is worn and brittle like it's been folded and unfolded many times, but the numbers written on the lines are sharp and dark, almost aggressively neat. They fill up the page.

I flip the paper over to find a hand-drawn map of the compound.

“Is there a reason the previous occupant felt they needed to hide things?” Mr. Sanchez asks.

What do the numbers mean?

Something crashes in another room and shifts both our attentions to the wall separating this room from the one next to it. The crash sounded farther than that, maybe one or two rooms down the hall. My room.

I stand and start toward the door. “Excuse me.”

CHAPTER 2

LUNA

As I stride toward my room, I fold the mysterious paper into six even folds, stopping outside the door to work the two creases. Inside the room, someone curses. Masculine. Smooth; not Father. No sign of Thorne’s deep baritone⁠—

Sawyer.

My heart pauses.

My hand slips on my back pocket, and I have to try twice to slide the paper inside. The door slams against the wall as I throw it open, then immediately regret the careless act. If anyone came to investigate the noise, I don’t know how I would explain this. I can’t make sense of it myself.

Sawyer.

Tangled up in dark curtains, one side still half-hanging by a single hook. My throat closes up; my eyes sting as though the room is filled with smoke—though I can smell the cold-bitten, fresh air through the open window.

I nearly hop a single step toward him, then stop just as abruptly.

I could bury myself into his chest or shove him out the window; both urges are equal.

“What are you doing here?”

Sawyer untangles himself from the curtain with a final curse before limping to me like he rolled his ankle. No answer. No explanation. His face twists in a pained way that makes my eyes draw to his ankle, but I’m snapped straight as he takes my face with rough hands. His lips crash more than they kiss—worlds away from passionate, but a mirror to the twist of my gut.

Relief.

I’m tense only for a fraction of a second. My palms cup the fleece of his jacket, wet from sweat and melted snow. His mouth is warm, but his lips are cold, and the contrast is both sharp and addictive. I’m pulled closer, until I smell him with every desperate inhale. It’s the scent that lingered in his room—free of sweetness, devoid of leather.

When Sawyer finally pulls away, his hands still holding my face, he presses his forehead to mine and blows a breath against my lips.