Page 56 of You Can Run

“Quiet.”

He was off her and on his feet in a single motion, the transition so fast it left her cold where his body had been. His hand found the .45 on the kitchenette table without looking; the same hands that had been tracing her skin two seconds ago now wrapped around a gun.

Jessica sat up, pulling the wool blanket to her chest, her pulse hammering for a different reason now.

The house groaned in the wind. Rain battered the windows. Beneath the floor, something shifted.

Dante stood between her and the door, barefoot, shirtless, the gun held low.

He didn't look back at her. He didn't need to. She could read his body as well as she ever had, and what it was telling her now was that the world they'd shut out ten minutes ago had found them.

One second his weight was over her, his mouth on her skin, her body so focused on him that the storm had stopped existing. The next, she was sitting up in a strange bed in a dark room, clutching a wool blanket to her bare chest while Dante pressed his back against the wall beside the door with a gun in his hand.

She wanted to scream at the timing. At whatever cruel thing kept doing this to them, kept letting them get close enough to touch before ripping the floor out. She was so tired ofalmost.

“Is it them?” she whispered.

“I don't know.” He didn't look at her. His focus was on the door. “Get behind the counter. Stay low. If that door goes, you go out the back window.”

She didn't move. She stayed exactly where she was, hair dripping onto the pillow, her heart still hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with fear.

We were right there,she thought. A tear escaped and tracked through the salt on her cheek.We were finally there.

Another thud from below, something large and metallic scraping against timber.

Dante moved to the door, his hand on the knob, his body coiled. He ripped it open and the wind screamed into the room, bringing a spray of seawater with it. He leveled the gun into the dark.

Five seconds passed. Then ten. The rain lashing his face, his finger on the trigger, the muscles in his back rigid.

Then his shoulders dropped. He lowered the weapon.

“What?” Jessica said, already on her feet. “What is it?”

He stepped back inside and kicked the door shut, turning the bolt. He leaned his forehead against the wood, his chest heaving, the adrenaline coming down through him in visible waves.

“A skiff,” he said. “Loose. It's wedged under the pilings.” A breath. “It's just a boat, baby.”

He turned from the door. His eyes found hers across the dim room, and she watched him register what was on her face – the tear, the rawness, the fact that she was sitting on a bed they'd been in together sixty seconds ago and the distance between then and now felt like a canyon.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then the tension left his body, not all at once, but in a slow release. He set the gun on the counter and crossed the room. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, close enough that his arm pressed against hers, and he didn't say anything.

Jessica leaned into him, her forehead finding the curve of his neck. He was wet and cold and smelled like rain, and she pressed into him anyway.

His arm came around her. His hand settled on her back, over the blanket, and he held her.

The skiff scraped against the pilings again, a low, hollow sound that was already becoming ordinary.

“I hate this,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“I don't mean the danger. Or the running.” She pulled back enough to look at him. “I hate that every time we get close to something real, something takes it away. And I hate that I'm starting to think that's just what happens to us.”

Dante looked at her for a long moment. Then his hand came up and he wiped the tear track from her cheek with his thumb, the gesture so gentle it almost started her crying again.

“It's a boat, Jess,” he said. “That's all it was. We're still here.”