Page 37 of Freedom’s Inferno

He cleared his throat. “We need to go by my place tomorrow. I want to swap out my clothes, and drop off my bike. We’ll take your car and check into a hotel after that.”

I nodded, too tired to speak. I don’t know how long we sat there, breathing in the silence. The stench of smoke still clung to my hair, my clothes, and my skin, so thick I could almost taste it. Part of me feared it would never come out completely, but maybe that was fitting. Maybe we both needed to reek of ruin for a while.

Charlie rested his head back against the wall, staring at nothing. The shadows carved harsh lines into his face, but something softer showed there too, something I hadn’t noticed before. I wasn’t seeing him as the brooding shadow in the corner, dimming every light around him. He just looked painfully, achingly human.

He shifted and the motion stirred the air between us. I caught the scent of him—sweat, leather, smoke, and something metallic.

My nose wrinkled before I could stop it. “You smell like arson.”

His mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile I’d seen all night. “You’re one to talk.”

The corner of my lip lifted, but it faded almost as quickly as it came. I should’ve showered. Should’ve stripped down, scrubbed my skin raw, washed off the stink of smoke and fear. But I didn’t have the will. Every muscle in my body ached, and my brain had gone to static. I didn’t want to move. The exhaustion had dulled all the sharp edges between us. For the first time, we weren’t adversaries. We were two people who’d been too close to the fire.

My eyes were heavy, the adrenaline wearing off like a bad hangover. My head dropped back against the wall, and for a while I let the rhythm of the clock blur into the slow rise and fall of our breathing.

At some point, between one tick and the next, I must’ve drifted. My head tilted sideways, finding the curve of his shoulder.

He leaned enough that we met halfway.

Strange, how two broken people can fit together, even for a moment.

The last thing I felt before sleep took me was the weight of his shoulder against mine and the mercy of his warmth.

Chapter 16

Chuck

Waking up on the foyer floor was incredibly disorienting. I didn’t know where I was at first. Behind closed eyelids I could have been anywhere, and for a moment I allowed myself to believe I’d wake from this hideous nightmare, tucked safely in my own bed. My stiff joints knew that was a lie.

Lana was still asleep by the time my eyes fluttered open, her head leaning against my shoulder, a small wet spot on my shirt from where she’d drooled on me. A deep ache bloomed in my bruised tail bone before I even tried to move.

I’m getting too fucking old for this shit.

I eased from beneath her, pushing her body straight so her head tipped back against the wall. It looked painful, the way her neck tilted, chin pointed toward the ceiling. The light from the window caught on her hair, turning it to copper where it fell across her face. For once she didn’t look like the woman who’d bitten, clawed, and cursed her way through every impossible thing. She looked… soft. Fragile. Innocent in a way that made my chest ache.

I frowned, watching her breathe through her open mouth, imagining all of the ways she’d be sore when she woke up. I wanted to fix her. To lift her, carry her to bed, pull a blanket over her shoulders and make it right somehow. It struck me then just how depleted she was, and something twisted, sharp in my gut. These last several days had taken their toll. Letting her sleep was a mercy.

The scent of smoke still clung to me, faint but stubborn. My hands were black under the nails, and ash collected in the lines of my palms. Gauze stuck to my skin with dried blood, sores burning as I flexed my fingers. Without allowing myself another glance, I turned and headed for the bathroom.

Clicking the door shut behind me, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dragged the screen across my thigh, leaving a gray smear on the denim. Scrolling through my contacts, my thumb slowed when I reached his name.

Elliott McCallister: my last resort.

Calling Elliott meant admitting I was out of moves, out of options, down to the one card I’d promised myself I’d never play. I stared at his name for a long moment, jaw tight, then hit call and tucked the phone in the crook of my neck.

He picked up on the second ring.

“It’s me,” I said, turning the shower knob and testing the water with my fingers.

“It’s six in the morning, Chuck.”

“I need you to meet me at my place.” My belt buckle clinked as I shuffled out of my pants. “Today.”

The roll of his eyes was almost audible in the beat of silence before he asked, “How serious?”

“Turn on the news this morning.” I peeled my shirt off, wincing with the movement, and dropped it to the floor. “You’ll understand.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, voice tight.