"Dante?" I call out cautiously.
He ignores me. He steps into the dark bathroom. I hear the squeak of a rusted faucet. A violent shuddering groan echoes through the pipes in the walls. A second later, brownish water sputters from the tap, followed by a steadier stream of semi-clear water.
"We have water," his voice echoes from the tile room. It sounds strained.
I push myself off the mattress and follow him. I am covered in sweat, grease, and the grit of shattered asphalt. A splash of water sounds like heaven, even if it comes from a haunted pipe.
I step into the bathroom doorway. The space is a relic of 1980s luxury. Black marble tiles, brass fixtures green with oxidation, and a sunken tub. Dante leans over the sink. He is splashing cold water onto his face. His shoulders heave.
I step closer. The scent of gun oil and black coffee is overpowered by the damp, metallic smell of the rusty pipes.
Dante grips the edges of the marble vanity. His head is bowed. The muscles in his back are bunched so tight they look like carved granite. He is still, but the tension vibrating from him is a physical pressure against my skin.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly.
He snaps upright. He spins around, his dark eyes wide and unfocused. For a split second, he stares blankly through me, as if trapped in a waking nightmare instead of a dusty hotel bathroom.
"Clear," he barks, his voice harsh. He steps around me quickly, putting distance between us. "The room is clear. Water is functional. Wash your face. We sleep in shifts."
He brushes past me, his arm grazing my shoulder. The heat of him lingers long after he stalks back into the main room.
I turn to the mirror. The cloudy glass reflects a disaster. My dark hair is a tangled rat's nest, escaping its messy bun in wild curls. Smudges of black soot streak across my cheeks and forehead. My dark eyes look huge and terrified in my pale face. My favorite pink La Diosa t-shirt is torn at the collar and stained with grease.
The woman in the mirror has hollowed-out eyes and ash-streaked skin. I don't recognize her.
Anger flares in my chest, hot and bright. I am not a victim. I will not let some nameless mobsters take my entire life and turn me into a cowering mess hiding in a dead hotel. I turn on the rusted brass tap. I cup the freezing water in my hands and splash it over my face. The icy shock clears the lingering fog of adrenaline.
I scrub the soot from my skin. I rip the hair tie from my head, letting my curls tumble down my back. I dig my fingers into my scalp, massaging away the tension.
The physical reality of the night sets in. My muscles ache. My feet throb inside my boots. The adrenaline crash hits hard. The exhaustion of surviving a war zone drops over me like a lead apron.
I turn the water off. The silence in the bathroom is absolute. I dry my face with the hem of my ruined shirt. I take a deep, steadying breath and step back out into the main suite.
Dante is standing by the far window again. He has dragged one of the mahogany chairs from the sitting area and wedged it tightly under the brass doorknob of the main entrance. A crude barricade. He is currently stripping the rotting velvet drapes from the second window, letting them fall to the floor in a cloud of dust.
"What are you doing?" I ask, wrapping my arms around myself. The air in the room is freezing.
"Securing the corners." He does not look at me. He grabs the dust ruffle from the first bed and rips it clean off the mattress with one violent yank. He throws the fabric into the corner. "Dust creates tracks. I will know if someone enters while I am securing the adjacent rooms."
"You locked the door. You barricaded it. We are on the fourteenth floor."
"Tactics require redundancy." He turns around. His dark eyes lock onto mine. He freezes.
His professional mask slips for a fraction of a second. the second his gaze hits my body. He stares at me. He takes in the damp skin of my face, the wild tangle of my dark hair, the way my curves press against the ruined fabric of my shirt.
The air in the room shifts. The silence turns electric. Something charged moves between us.
He takes a step toward me.
My feet stay glued to the floor. I should step back. I should assert my boundaries. But the sheer presence of this man pins me in place.
He stops two feet away. He is so tall I have to crane my neck to look up at him. His chest rises and falls in a steady beat.
"You’re shivering.” His voice is a low vibration in the small space. His voice drops an octave. The gravelly rumble scrapes straight down my spine.
I am shivering. I did not even notice. The adrenaline crash combined with the freezing temperature of the abandoned hotel has my teeth practically chattering.
"I'm fine," I lie. I lift my chin, refusing to break eye contact. "I just want to sleep."
