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“Sweet Jesus,” I whisper.

Rowan picks up the ID and credit card and shoves them into his pocket. When he grabs a few stacks of cash, I notice they’re all hundred-dollar bills. He hands them to me, and I quickly squash the money to my chest so I don’t drop any of it.

God, I’m easily holding two hundred thousand dollars in my hands right now.

My eyes dart back to all the other stacks, then to Rowan’s face.

Over the past week, we’ve been living on the bare minimum, traveling light through endless deserts. It gave me the impression he was making do with what he had, and I didn’t have a problem with that.

I figured once we got to Peru, we’d both get jobs and build new lives there.

Rowan tucks the guns behind his back into the waistband of his cargo pants, then grabs the phone before rolling the drawer shut. A red light turns on by the keypad, and there’s a soft beep as it locks into place.

Turning to face me, Rowan says, “If I die, come get the rest of the cash and find a quiet place to live. I’ll give you the code. It’s your safety net.”

Even though I nod, I whisper, “But you’re not going to die. I’m not doing all of this without you.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead, then places his hand on my lower back and nudges me toward the dark stairs.

When I take the first step, Rowan’s arm comes around me again, and he effortlessly lifts me, carrying me up into the other room, where we stop by the desk.

Luis shuts the vault door before taking a seat and asking, “What else do you require?”

“A private jet to Panama. Also, a yacht, with staff and clothes for us, and put me in touch with your contact in Colombia again to have a new identity set up.” Rowan gives a list of orders. “And transfer the security drawer over to Annie.”

Luis stares at Rowan for a few seconds, then nods. He opens a drawer and pulls out a large ledger. He opens it and finds whatever page he’s looking for, and then I see written information with a signature and a brown stain over it.

“Full name?” Luis asks.

“Annie Collins,” Rowan replies while taking the stacks of cash from me and setting them down on the desk.

“Annabelle Collins,” I correct him.

There’s a flicker of surprise in Rowan’s eyes while Luis writes down my name before holding the pen out to me.

“Sign right here.” Luis turns the ledger and points to the paper. I bend at the waist and quickly scribble my signature, but as I straighten up, I see a needle in the man’s hand.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s for the drop of blood,” Rowan explains, taking the needle from the man. “Give me your left hand.”

I hold it up, and Rowan carefully pricks the tip of my ring finger, then guides my hand to the ledger, letting the drop of blood fall over my signature.

Now I understand the brown stain. It must be Rowan’s blood.

The next moment, he takes my finger into his mouth and sucks. With widening eyes and parting lips, I stare at him before he frees my hand.

I get the feeling choosing to prick my ring finger is a symbolic thing for Rowan, almost like a commitment between us.

“Done. I’ll have the private jet ready in four hours. Enjoy breakfast out on the veranda.”

Rowan gestures at the money he placed on the desk. “I assume the fee hasn’t changed?”

“You assume right.” Luis nods. “As always, thank you for the business.”

When we leave the room, I follow Rowan to a set of side doors that stand open, and stepping out onto the veranda, I see an intimate setting.

There’s a table with a platter of fruits and various breads and condiments, as well as two glasses of orange juice.