“You reclaimed your power,” Ace says matter-of-factly. “That’s not something to feel guilty about.”
Cyrus nods. “You survived him. Tonight, you made sure he could never hurt anyone again.”
I nod, a small smile touching my lips. “Those girls—his stepdaughters—we’ll never know if it happened to them. If it did, at least he’s gone now.”
The realization settles over me like a blanket. The peace I feel isn’t just for my own healing; it’s knowing I’ve stopped a cycle before it could claim more victims.
In the front seat, Ace focuses on the road while Cyrus stares out the passenger window. I notice their hands drifting toward each other on the center console, fingers brushing before interlocking naturally. Neither seems to realize what they’ve done, this unconscious seeking of connection after the intensity of the night.
I watch their joined hands. The gesture is so casual, yet so intimate, it makes my breath catch. After all their protestations about boundaries, I feel they are crossing one without even noticing.
34
CYRUS
The sun creeps over the horizon as I pull into the parking lot of a cheap motel off the highway. My body thrums with leftover adrenaline, the bloodlust still singing in my veins. Tonight felt different. Watching Keira take her revenge, seeing that fire in her eyes—it awakened a thrill beyond the usual one I get when I kill.
“We need to crash for a few hours,” I say, turning off the engine.
Ace nods, our eyes meeting in silent understanding. It’s the same look we’ve shared a thousand times after a job. Except something feels different now. I glance down, realizing our fingers are intertwined on the console between us. I pull my hand away quickly, flexing my fingers.
In the backseat, Keira’s head droops against the window. Her eyelids flutter as she fights to stay conscious. Blood still stains the collar of her shirt—Henderson’s, not hers. The sight shouldn’t make my chest tighten the way it does.
“I’ll get us a room,” Ace says, sliding out of the car.
I turn to look at Keira. “You okay back there, little dancer?”
She nods vaguely, obviously beyond exhausted. The adrenaline crash hit her harder than it did us, since we’re usedto it. I reach back and brush my thumb across her cheek. She leans into my touch like she’s starving for it, and something in my chest shifts, protective and possessive all at once.
When Ace returns with a key, I gather Keira in my arms. She feels impossibly light, her head nestling against my shoulder as I carry her to the room. The motel is exactly what you’d expect—faded wallpaper, scratchy bedspreads, the lingering smell of cigarettes poorly masked by cheap air freshener.
I lay Keira on the bed. Her eyes are already closed before her head hits the pillow, her body surrendering to exhaustion. She doesn’t even stir when I pull off her shoes.
I slip into the bathroom, leaving Keira passed out on the bed. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Ace is already there, peeling off his blood-spattered shirt.
“She’s out cold,” I tell him, shutting the door quietly behind me.
Ace nods, turning the shower on. Steam begins to fill the cramped space. “Henderson’s blood is a bitch to get off.”
We’ve done this dance a hundred times before. Strip down. Step in. Wash away the evidence. We’ve been cleaning each other’s backs since we were seven, taught by handlers who made us stand in ice water if we left a single trace behind.
The shower is barely big enough for one grown man, let alone two. Our elbows knock as we take turns under the spray. Ace grabs the cheap motel soap, scrubbing methodically at his forearms while I work my fingers under the hot water, watching Henderson’s dried blood dissolve and swirl down the drain.
“You see her face when she took that knife to him?” I ask, my voice echoing against the tile. “Like she was born for it.”
Ace’s eyes meet mine, water dripping from his lashes. “She was magnificent.”
There’s something raw in his voice I rarely hear. Something that makes me hyper-aware of our bodies, the steam, the narrow space between us.
I focus on my fingernails, using the small motel comb to scrape under them. “Pass the soap.”
Our fingers brush as he hands it over. I feel a jolt, like static electricity. We’ve never been awkward around each other, not in thirty-one years of existing in each other’s space. But now there’s a current running between us, charged by Keira’s fantasy, her presence in our lives.
“This is different,” Ace says, reading my mind the way he always does.
I nod, unable to look at him. “Everything’s different now.”
I watch the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. “The way she stood there, knife in hand—like she’d been doing this her whole life.”
