Page 73 of Freedom’s Inferno

Lana leaned against me, her head resting under my chin, the curve of her body pressed close and familiar.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. The rushing of the water filled the space between us, rhythmic and grounding. Her hair clung in wet strands against her skin.

Before I could stop myself, I said, “You’re incredible.”

She tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, voice rough with the afterglow and breathlessness.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Not bad?”

Her smile widened. “Fine. You’re better than not bad. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

She rolled her eyes, and the gesture was so effortlessly her that I couldn’t help grinning.

She reached for the soap, fingers brushing mine as she lathered it in her palms. “So,” she said, her tone shifting, still light but threaded with purpose. “What’s the plan after this?”

“Drive back to your place,” I said. “If there’s a safe, we’ll find it. The combination might match the numbers on the clock shop card.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

I shrugged, water dripping from my hair. “Then we try something else. Cross-check the numbers with the Longcast accounts, the shell company records. We had to have missed something.”

She nodded, thoughtful, the kind of look she got when her mind started spinning a thousand steps ahead. She turned to rinse her hair, the curve of her neck catching the light. Something about the domesticity was grounding, the normalcy we’d stolen for ourselves in this one quiet moment.

The ease of it unnerved me.

This was the part I didn’t do. I didn’t linger in borrowed bathrooms or share hot water or memorize the shape of a woman’s neck while she rinsed shampoo from her hair. I dated, sure, but never long enough to be seen, never long enough to let anything take root. Because attachment turned into expectations, and expectations turned into things you could lose.

“You can have the rest of the hot water,” I said, rinsing off the rest of the soap and moving to exit the shower.

She blinked at me through the mist, eyes soft in a way that caught me off guard. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m just gonna go make us a pot of coffee.”

I stepped out, grabbing a towel from the rack and running it over my hair. I caught one last glimpse of her through the haze. Lana, standing beneath the stream, face tilted toward the spray, lost somewhere between exhaustion and thought. I turned away before the feeling could settle too deeply, the air outside the shower cool against my skin, and left her to the warmth.

Chapter 29

Lana

The water had gone lukewarm but I stayed beneath the stream anyway, watching the water gather at my feet before disappearing down the drain. My sex was swollen, tender, marked by the heat and the memory of him. An ache bloomed in my inner thighs, my adductors thoroughly strained with activity.

I tipped my head back, letting the water run over my face until my eyes stung. I liked that ache, that lingering echo of him that refused to fade. I relished in the private knowledge that something of him stayed with me, unseen but deeply felt. What had happened between us hadn’t changed the world outside these walls—Costa was still out there, the missing money still hanging over our heads—but it had shifted something in me.

I toweled off in careful motions, afraid any sharp movement might shatter the fragile calm inside me. By the time I stepped out into the suite, the steam trailed after me in thin wisps. The air was cooler, still scented with coffee. I’d pulled on black leggings and a navy sweater that brushed the tops of my thighs, pairing them with ankle boots that tapped against the hardwood floor. My hair was still damp, curling at the ends.

Charlie sat near the window in an armchair, one leg braced over the other, his body angled toward the city view. A mug of coffee rested in one hand, the other clutching the envelope that had haunted him for years.

He’d dressed already, gray-wash jeans, and a long-sleeved black Under Armour shirt that fit close to the shape of him. The kind of shirt that didn’t leave much to the imagination, every line of his shoulders and arms visible in the soft morning light. Another mug sat on the coffee table, a thin curl of steam rising from it, waiting for me.

I stood there, taking him in. The steady focus on his face, the small, rhythmic movement of his thumb against the corner of the envelope.

He looked both composed and undone, like a man holding something fragile he wasn’t sure he wanted to open.

I crossed the room and perched on the arm of his chair. “You’re thinking about opening it.”

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “Figured if I didn’t do it now, I never would.”