Chapter 7 Celeste
SEVEN
Celeste
The fluorescent lights in the hotel lobby flicker, casting sickly shadows across worn carpet the color of trampled autumn leaves.
My soaked clothes cling to my body, water dripping steadily from my hair to form small puddles at my feet.
I shift my weight to my right leg, keeping pressure off my throbbing left knee.
Each subtle movement sends jagged pain through my ribs.
Breathing hurts. Standing hurts. Existing hurts.
Ryan cuts an imposing figure at the front desk, his broad shoulders squared despite our ordeal.
While I look like a drowned rat, he somehow manages to appear merely weathered—like someone caught in a storm rather than someone who crawled through maintenance tunnels and fought off professional killers.
The unfairness of this grates on my already frayed nerves.
“Just for tonight,” he tells the desk clerk, sliding what looks like three hundred-dollar bills across the counter. Cash. No credit card. No ID. Another red flag to add to my growing collection.
The clerk—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and perpetually surprised eyebrows—glances between us. His eyes linger on the dirt streaking my face and the blood matting my hair at the temple, then slide to Ryan’s composed expression. A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Long night?” he asks, not really asking.
I can read the assumptions forming behind his eyes. Domestic dispute. Lovers’ quarrel. Maybe he thinks Ryan’s some jealous boyfriend who dragged me through hell. The thought bubbles up hysterical laughter that I barely manage to swallow.
If only it were that simple.
“One room or two?” The clerk’s fingers hover over his keyboard.
“Two,” I say immediately, the word sharp and definitive.
At precisely the same moment, Ryan says, “One.”
We lock eyes. My chin lifts in challenge.
“Two rooms,” I repeat, gritting my teeth. “Separate rooms.”
Ryan steps closer to me—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes never leave mine as he says to the clerk, “One.”
The single word lands with the weight of a command. No explanation. No argument. Just absolute certainty.
I open my mouth to protest, but he gives me a look that stops the words in my throat. It’s not threatening, exactly. More like—resolved. As if the matter is already settled, my input irrelevant to the final decision. A muscle in his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“One room,” the clerk confirms, his eyebrows climbing higher as he observes our silent standoff. “King or two queens?”
“Two beds,” I interject quickly before Ryan can respond, desperation creeping into my voice.
Ryan doesn’t contradict me this time, which I count as a small victory until the clerk winces apologetically.
“Sorry, ma’am. Got ahead of myself. Only kings available tonight. Convention in town.” He doesn’t sound particularly sorry. In fact, there’s that knowing smile again, like he’s witnessing a familiar scene playing out for the thousandth time.
I want to scream. Want to explain that I’m not what he thinks—not some conquest or girlfriend or victim.
I’m a journalist with a Pulitzer nomination.
I’ve interviewed warlords and corrupt politicians.
I’ve exposed human trafficking rings and corporate fraud.
I don’t belong here, soaked and trembling in a budget hotel lobby, at the mercy of a stranger’s decisions.
But those accomplishments feel as distant as another life. Because right now, that’s exactly what I am—soaked, trembling, and at someone else’s mercy.
“Fine,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my displeasure. “Whatever.”
The clerk types with agonizing slowness, each keystroke deliberate. “Name?”
“David Wilson,” Ryan answers without hesitation. A lie, delivered with such conviction that I almost believe it myself.
I add this to my mental file: Ryan Ellis uses aliases smoothly. Without preparation or hesitation. Another piece in the puzzle of who exactly I’ve tied my survival to.
The clerk slides two key cards across the counter. Ryan takes them both, tucking one into his pocket and holding the other loosely between his fingers.
“Room 412,” the clerk says. “Elevator’s to your right. Checkout’s at eleven.”
Ryan nods his thanks. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the elevator. I should shrug him off. Should assert my independence. But his touch stabilizes my uneven gait, and I’m too exhausted to refuse the support.
The elevator doors close with a soft chime, sealing us into a mirrored box that multiplies our bedraggled reflections into infinity. Ryan drops his hand from my back, creating distance between us. I catch him watching me in the reflection, his expression unreadable.
“One room is safer,” he says quietly, breaking the silence. “I can’t protect you if you’re in a different room.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Is that what you’re doing? Protecting me?”
“What else would I be doing?”
A dozen possibilities race through my mind, none of them reassuring. Kidnapping me. Using me as bait. Extracting whatever information I have before disposing of me once I’m no longer useful.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “That’s the problem.”
The elevator stops with a slight jolt that sends pain shooting through my ribs. I inhale sharply, hand automatically moving to brace my side.
His eyes track the movement. “How bad?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The doors slide open, saving me from responding. He checks the hallway before stepping out, those ice-blue eyes scanning every corner and shadow. I follow, noting which way the exit signs point and calculating how quickly I could reach the stairs if needed.
Old habits. Survival instincts.
We stop outside 412. Ryan slides the key card into the lock, waits for the green light, then pushes the door open—but doesn’t enter.
Instead, he steps aside, gesturing for me to stay put, then moves into the room without me.
I watch from the doorway as he checks the bathroom, the closet, under the bed, and the windows.
Only after this methodical inspection does he nod for me to enter.
I limp into the room, letting the door close behind me with a soft click. The lock engages automatically. I wonder if it would keep out the kind of men hunting us.
I doubt it.
The room is standard budget hotel fare: a king bed dominates the space, a particle-board dresser with a TV bolted on top, and a small round table with two chairs by the window. Beige wallpaper, carpet, everything. But it’s clean, the sheets look fresh, and there’s no obvious mold in the corners.
After maintenance tunnels and rainy alleys, it seems almost luxurious.
Ryan draws the curtains closed and turns to face me. For a long moment, we stare at each other, the reality of our situation settling like dust after an explosion.
My heart pounds against my injured ribs. The flash drive in my pocket feels suddenly heavier.
“So,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “One room. One bed. What happens now?”
Ryan doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he moves to the heater unit beneath the window, adjusting the settings until warm air begins to circulate. This small consideration—addressing the chill from our soaked clothes—catches me off guard.
“Now,” he finally says, “we deal with our situation practically.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as if we’re discussing a business arrangement rather than the logistics of sharing a bed with a stranger. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“Oh.” The word sounds small in the quiet room.
He reaches up to run a hand through his damp hair, the movement pulling his sodden shirt across broad shoulders. Water droplets cling to his neck. For the first time, I allow myself to really look at him—not as a threat or an unwanted protector, but simply as a man.
The jagged scar beneath his left eye. The focused intensity of his blue eyes. The way he holds himself, always balanced, always ready. In another context, I might have found him attractive. Might have approached him at a bar or a fundraiser, curious about his story.
But context is everything, and ours is a nightmare.
I catch my own reflection in the dresser mirror and freeze. The woman staring back is unrecognizable.
My normally sleek dark hair hangs in wet, filthy tangles.
Dirt and grime streak across my face, mingling with mascara that raccoons beneath my eyes.
Dried blood forms a rust-colored crust at my temple where my head hit the dashboard during the crash.
My white blouse—or what was white—clings translucent to my skin, torn at one shoulder.
The knee of my jeans is ripped open, revealing angry red abrasions beneath.
I look feral. Hunted. Broken.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat before I can stop it.
“What’s funny?” Ryan asks, watching me with that unnerving focus.
“Twelve hours ago, I was having coffee at my favorite café, working on an exposé about corporate tax evasion.” My voice cracks.
“Now I’m standing in a cheap hotel room with a stranger I watched incapacitate four men, wearing clothes I crawled through sewer tunnels in, while professional killers hunted me.
” I gesture at my reflection. “And I look like this.”
His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “Could be worse.”
“Really? How exactly could this be worse?”
“You could be dead like your source.”
The words slam into me, harder than a fist. Air punches out of my lungs, and I stumble back, weight jolting onto my bad knee until it nearly gives beneath me. Pain lances up my leg, sharp and hot, but it’s nothing compared to the crack tearing through my chest.
“What do you mean?” My mouth goes dry.