Page 36 of Peak’s Code

“Oh, no,” she breathed, “I don’t.”

“Well, you can’t use a credit card. The government can definitely trace them,” he said.

“I know what the government can trace,” she spat.

“Listen, we’re both adults, and I’m sure that we can sleep in the same bed without it being a big deal,” he said.

She barked out her laugh. “That’s exactly what I expected you to say. But luckily for you, I’m too tired to argue with you. I’m using the bathroom first,” she said.

“As you wish, sweetheart,” he drawled. He walked over to lock the front door, leaning against it when he finished. The adrenaline that had carried him through the last several hours began to fade. His shoulder throbbed, his ribs hurt, and his knuckles were split open.

"You're bleeding,” she said, nodding to his hand.

He looked down. "I've had worse."

She sighed. "Sit,” she ordered, “I’ll clean you up.”

"I'm fine,” he insisted.

"Peak." It was the first time she'd said his name without sarcasm. Something about the way it sounded made him obey before he'd consciously decided to. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Maeve disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, she returned carrying a small first-aid kit she'd found under the sink.

She stood between his knees. "Take off the kutte."

He looked up at her. "Bossy."

"I've been called worse." He smiled despite himself.

"So have I." She gently lifted his kutte from his shoulders. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck for only a second, but still, neither of them moved away. For the first time since she'd walked into Grave Prowler’s territory, there were no gunshots, no explosions, and no interrogations. Just two exhausted people in a quiet motel room, discovering that silence didn't feel nearly as lonely when they shared it with someone else.

Peak had been stitched up before. He’d had road rash, knife cuts, and had taken a bullet that he'd lied to the emergency room doctor about five years ago. Pain didn't bother him. What bothered him was sitting on the edge of a motel bed while Maeve stood between his knees, cleaning dried blood from his shoulder. She was entirely too close to him, not that he'd admit that aloud.

"I don’t think that you missed anything, honey."

She didn't look up at him. "I know. I’m just being thorough.”

"Why are you torturing me?" he asked.

Her lips twitched. "I'm enjoying myself." She dabbed antiseptic onto another cut, and Peak hissed out his breath.

"Fuck, that hurts,” he growled.

"Oh, don't be dramatic,” Maeve said.

"Dramatic?" He looked at her. "You poured fire into an open wound, and you’re calling me dramatic?"

"I poured antiseptic into an open wound,” she corrected.

"Same difference,” he mumbled.

"No." She finally looked at him. "It really isn't." For a second, neither of them looked away. Her green eyes caught the light from the bedside lamp, and for the first time since he'd met her, they weren't hard. They looked tired and lonely. He knew those eyes because he saw them every morning in his own mirror.

"You've done this before."

She returned her attention to his shoulder. "Done what?"

"Patch people up,” he said.

"Once or twice,” she admitted.