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)
“Yeah,” she says. “Starting with: survive the night. Then: find a place to crash that doesn’t come with complimentary assassins. Then: call Dean and Arrow and give them so much shit.”
“Ambitious,” I say.
“You love that about me,” she reminds me.
I do.
More than I’ve ever loved anything.
I flick the headlights on once we’ve put enough distance between us and the cabin, the beam cutting through the trees, turning the road from shadow to something navigable.
The vehicle barrels into the dark, tires eating up the miles.
Behind us, somewhere in the forest, Viktor Luka’s hired guns are regrouping around a busted cabin with four very unhappy colleagues on the floor.
Ahead of us?
Every uncertain, dangerous mile between here and whatever comes next.
We’re on the run now.
Not hiding.
Not waiting.
Moving.
Lark shifts closer, hip pressed against mine, hand still on my arm like she’s anchoring us both.
“Hey, Knight?” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Let’s make them beg,” she murmurs.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, eyes on the road, heart locked on the girl beside me. “Oh, Birdie,” I say. “That’s the plan.”
EIGHTEEN
CASH ONLY
LARK
We roll into the kind of roadside hotel that looks like it’s seen three divorces, a meth bust, and at least one ghost who refuses to move on out of spite.
Perfect.
Knight kills the engine two blocks away and makes us walk the rest of the distance, hood up, hats low, duffel heavy on my shoulder. The car’s too recognizable now. Too loud. Too us.
We’re not us tonight.
Tonight we’re two tired strangers with a single bag and the kind of paranoia that makes your bones buzz.
The neon sign outside flickers between VACANCY and VAC_NCY, like even the electricity is exhausted.
Knight ventures in alone first. Because of course he does. Because in every crisis, his default setting is shield her, even when I’m the one who bashes skulls with a bat and knows Krav Maga.
I wait by the soda machine that survived the Reagan administration, pretending to scroll on a dead phone while my eyes track every car that rolls through the lot.
A minivan. A delivery truck. A guy in pajama pants smoking like he’s mad at the air.
No one looks twice at me. But I feel like a target anyway.
I’m still hearing the cabin crash in my head. The splintered door. The muzzle flash. The moment we stopped being hidden and became hunted.
Knight reappears with a key card and a receipt. “Room 112,” he says low. “Cash. No IDs. One night.”
“Bless the morally flexible,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay sharp.
We move fast.
Room 112 is on the ground floor, which I hate, but Knight insisted on it because he wants sight lines and quick exits. He checks the curtain gap before we even step inside, then makes me stand behind him while he sweeps the room.
Bathroom. Closet. Under the bed. Like hitmen are going to be folded up in the mattress like fitted sheets.
Still.
I let him do it.
Sometimes love looks like letting a man pretend he can control the uncontrollable.
“Clear,” he says.
I close the door behind us, double-lock it, and slide the chain across with a soft metallic click.
The silence that follows is brutal.
The room is dim and stale, decorated in aggressive beige. The bedspread smells like industrial detergent and regret. The air conditioner rattles like it’s trying to disassemble itself.
I drop the duffel on the second bed and exhale.
Knight reaches up and peels off his hat, then runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to reset his nervous system manually.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
He looks at me. “What?” he asks.
“We’re alive,” I say. “That’s something.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
I cross the space and hook my fingers into his hoodie, tugging him closer. “You did good,” I say.
His brow furrows. “We’re in a random hotel with a bounty that just escalated and two guys back at the cabin who’ll probably never walk again.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I say, pressing my forehead to his chest. “You got us out. You didn’t freeze. You didn’t go full martyr. You didn’t try to be a lone-wolf tragedy.”
His arms come around me, slow and tight, like he’s reminding himself I’m real. “Don’t give me credit for basic survival,” he mutters.
“Too late.”
He exhales against my hair. “We need Arrow,” he says.
“I know.”
We can’t use our usual encrypted channels without risking a trace from this location. So Knight pulls a cheap burner out of the duffel—one we bought three towns back at a gas station with a “no refunds” sign and a clerk who looked like he’d seen the end of the world and yawned.
Knight pops the battery in, thumbs flying. “Signal’s weak,” he murmurs.
“Welcome to murder-budget hospitality.”
He snorts, then dials.
One ring.
Two.
A coded tone.
Arrow picks up instantly. “Hey, you alive?” he asks.
His voice is calm, but I can hear the tension underneath it. Arrow calm is the kind that comes with a locked jaw and a plan already halfway to execution.