Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
She starts to say something sarcastic. I can see it on her lips. Then she exhales instead. “A little,” she admits. “Not of them.” She flicks her gaze toward the window. “Just… of what it means.”
“What what means?”
She gestures vaguely between us. “You. Me. This. It was supposed to be fun. Hacks and bats and pissing you off. Now there’s a number attached to our faces in some sick bounty market and you look like you’re already planning my funeral.”
“I’m not,” I say, more sharply than I intend. “I’m planning how to make sure you never need one.”
Something in her eyes flickers.
I step closer before I think better of it. “We’ll handle this,” I say quietly. “We always do. You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
Her throat bobs. “Yeah, but… what if they get to you? I’m not… I’m not joking about the fear, Knight. I know I act like I don’t care about anything, but I do. And I—” She cuts herself off, eyes darting away.
The instinct to touch her hits me so hard it almost knocks me back.
I give in to exactly one fraction of it.
I rest my hand on her shoulder.
Her skin is warm. My palm is too big and clumsy and I feel like I’m holding a live wire.
She looks up at me.
There’s no joke there now. No teasing. Just open, raw worry.
Something cracks in my chest.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” I say, low and firm. “Do you understand me? If anyone touches you, they don’t walk away.”
Her breath catches. She whispers, “You can’t promise that.”
“I just did.”
For a beat, we stand there in the too-bright little kitchen, wrapped in this slow-growing tension that isn’t just fear or adrenaline.
It’s… more.
Deeper.
Hotter.
I realize my thumb is brushing small circles over her shoulder.
I should stop.
I don’t.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
My pulse spikes.
Nope.
Abort.
I step back, breaking contact like I’ve been burned. I turn to the cabinets. “We should eat. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we figure out who’s running that network and how deep this shit goes.”
“Right.” Her voice is a little breathless. “Food. Sleep. Totally.”
I find a pot, fill it with water, light the gas stove. The burner flares blue.
We move around each other in close quarters, bodies bumping occasionally, each contact sending a jolt through me I pretend not to notice.
Her shoulder brushes my back.
Her fingers graze mine when I pass her a bowl.
Her laugh is softer now, but still there, like she’s trying to force things back to normal.
They aren’t.
They never will be again.
By the time we’ve eaten and cleaned up, the sky outside is fully dark. The forest feels like a looming wall beyond the windows.
I kill most of the lights, leaving only the lamp by the couch.
Lark leans against the doorway, arms crossed, hair down now in loose waves. “So,” she says. “Sleeping arrangements.”
“You’re taking the bed.”
“And you’re taking the couch because… chivalry? Guilt? Fear of Gage?”
“Yes.”
She studies me, head tilted. “You know he’s not going to show up here and punch you for sharing a bed with me, right?”
“He might.”
“That’d be funny.”
“It would not.”
She steps closer, voice dropping into something between tease and something else. “What if I don’t want the bed by myself?”
My body responds before my brain can shut it down.
Every muscle tightens. Heat coils low.
I keep my voice steady. “That’s not an option.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I say, realizing too late how honest I’m about to be, “I don’t trust myself to sleep next to you and not…”
I trail off.
She leans in. “Not what?”
I could lie.
I don’t.
“Not touch you.”
The words land in the air like a flare.
Her lips part.
For a long, dangerous moment, we just stare at each other.
Then she smiles, slow and wicked. “Maybe I don’t want you to not touch me.”
I close my eyes for half a second. This girl is going to be the death of me. “We’re not doing this tonight,” I say roughly. “You’ve had a run, a scare, and three cups of gas station coffee. Your nervous system is lying to you.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m surviving.”
She searches my face. Whatever she sees there makes her sigh. “Fine,” she says, backing off half a step. “But just so you know, if I have nightmares, I’m climbing into your bed—I mean couch—and you don’t get a vote.”
“Duly noted.”
We stand there a second longer, the air thick with everything we’re not doing.
Finally, she huffs out a laugh. “Goodnight, Knight.”
“Goodnight, Lark.”
She disappears down the hall, and I’m left alone with the hum of the fridge, the creak of the wood, and the loud, annoying thud of my own heart.
I grab a pillow and a folded blanket from the linen closet, toss them on the couch, and lie down.
The cushions are narrow. Lumpy. My feet hang over the arm. A coil of a spring digs into my ribs.
I stare at the ceiling.