Chapter 18
Charlotte
The headlights of passing cars swept across the windshield like searchlights, each one making my heart jump. We’d been driving for almost half an hour, the St. Louis skyline long since swallowed by darkness in the rearview mirror.
My eyes kept drifting to the dark stain spreading from Ty’s temple. The sprinklers had washed away most of the blood, but fresh blood was oozing.
It was all I could see.
He caught me staring for the third time. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re bleeding from your head.”
“Scalp wounds always look worse than they are. Lots of blood vessels up here.” He tapped his temple with one finger, then couldn’t quite hide the flinch. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I’ve had worse. The bleeding will stop.”
“You need stitches.” I twisted in my seat to get a better look, the seat belt cutting into my neck. The gash above his left eye was at least a half inch long, the edges gaping slightly when he turned his head. “You could have a subdural hematoma or—”
“Charlotte.” His voice stayed gentle even as he shifted in his seat. “I’m okay. Outside of something being life-threatening, I don’t want to stop.”
I bit my tongue hard, using the sharp pain as an anchor.
How was this my life? Two weeks ago, my biggest concern had been debugging quantum encryption algorithms. My work on the Cascade Protocol was supposed to be a positive thing—a breakthrough in battery diagnostics that could prevent manufacturing defects, save lives by catching failures before they happened.
I’d wanted to help people. I’d wanted to make things better.
Instead, I’d created something that could be weaponized. Something worth killing for.
The research that was supposed to be my legacy had become a nightmare.
Every friendly face at the lab that ran through my mind now carried the possibility of betrayal—someone I’d shared coffee with, debugged code alongside, could be the one who’d sold us out.
The only world where I’d ever belonged had become a minefield.
My life was in danger.
And Ty—
The image hit me again: him emerging from my ransacked house, each step calculated to hide how much it hurt. Blood dripping steadily from his head.
He’d gotten injured protecting me.
My throat constricted. I swallowed hard, but the pressure built anyway, climbing from my chest to my throat to somewhere behind my eyes. My breathing went shallow, then ragged.
No. I didn’t do this. My brain didn’t work this way—it processed data, algorithms, logical sequences. Not this hot, crushing weight that made my ribs feel too small for my lungs.
A sound escaped anyway—small, fractured, foreign.
“Charlotte?” Ty’s hand found mine despite the darkened cab, warm fingers wrapping around my wrist. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m—” The word broke apart. Wetness spilled down my cheeks, hot and unexpected. I touched it with genuine confusion, my fingers coming away damp.
I never cried. The last time had been at my father’s funeral when I was eighteen, and even then, it had been silent, controlled. This was neither.
“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out between these unnatural, gasping breaths that shook my whole body. “You got hurt protecting me. You’re bleeding, and your ribs—I can see how much it hurts when you move—”
“Hey, stop.” He pulled the truck onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires.
Before I could process the movement, he’d unbuckled both our seat belts and pulled me across the bench seat, careful despite his injuries.
He tucked me against his chest, one large hand cradling the back of my head while the other rubbed slow circles on my back.
“This is all in a day’s work for me. I’ve been in firefights in Afghanistan that make this look like a playground scuffle. ”
“But you weren’t protecting someone who created a weapon—”
“You didn’t create a weapon. You created a diagnostic tool that someone else can pervert.
” His voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against my cheek.
“And you want to know something? Watching you work these past two weeks—the way your mind attacks problems, how you see patterns nobody else would notice—you’re extraordinary, Charlotte. ”
I shook my head against his shirt. “I don’t feel extraordinary. I feel like I’m drowning.”
“That’s because you’re human.” His hand kept moving in those steady circles, each pass loosening something wound tight in my chest just a little bit.
“Not the walking computer everyone seems to think you are. You’ve been rammed off the road, attacked, had your sanctuary violated, and have been awake working for nearly two days straight. You’re allowed to break.”
“I don’t know how to break.” The admission came out raw. “I don’t know how to process any of this.”
“You’re doing it right now, and it’s okay.
” He pressed his lips to the top of my head, just for a moment.
We sat there for another minute, maybe two, his hand still moving in those slow circles while my breathing gradually steadied.
The highway stretched empty in both directions, but I could feel the tension in his body, the constant vigilance even as he comforted me.
“We should keep moving,” he said finally, his voice soft, reluctant. “We can’t stay out here on the road exposed like this…”
He didn’t need to finish. I understood. I was putting us at risk. It didn’t matter how much I wanted to stay in his arms. It didn’t matter if he was the first man ever whose arms I wanted to stay in.
“Okay.” I pulled away slowly, already missing the solid warmth of him.
As he merged back onto the highway, I noticed how he held his left arm closer to his body, how his breathing stayed deliberately shallow. He was in more pain than he’d admit.
After a few minutes, he pulled out his phone, steering with one hand. “Need to update George on what happened.”
The phone rang through the truck’s speakers. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Voicemail.
“You’ve reached Special Agent George Mercer. Leave a message.”
Ty’s jaw went rigid. “George, it’s Ty. Situation at Vertex was FUBAR. We got the equipment we needed, but barely. We’re clear of the immediate area but need that safe house location now. Running out of options here. Call me.”
He ended the call, tossing the phone into the cupholder with barely controlled violence. “Hell of a time for him not to pick up.”
“Maybe he’s in a meeting.” I cringed. It was nearly midnight. Why would he be in a meeting?
“George doesn’t miss calls during active operations, even this late. Not unless—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening further.
We drove in tense silence for another few minutes, the highway empty except for the occasional semitruck thundering past. My eyes were gritty, and even staying conscious felt nearly impossible. I didn’t know how Ty was so focused despite being in worse shape than me.
The phone finally buzzed. Not a call—a text. Ty grabbed it, eyes flicking between screen and road.
“It’s from George.” He handed me the phone. “What’s it say?”
I read aloud, my voice still thick from crying. “Safe house address: 1847 Oak Ridge Road, toward Springfield. Not ready for at least three hours.”
“Three hours.” His knuckles clenched on the steering wheel. “We need somewhere now. Can’t stay exposed this long.”
As if in answer, a motel sign materialized from the darkness—Sunset Inn, the neon letters stuttering between pink and orange like a dying heartbeat. The kind of place where people went to disappear, to hide, to do things they didn’t want witnessed.
“There.” He pointed, already slowing for the exit. “We’ll hole up for a few hours, then move to the safe house when it’s ready.”
The parking lot sprawled before us, cracked asphalt and shadows.
A few cars huddled near the office like moths drawn to the sickly yellow light behind grimy glass.
Everything about the place made my skin crawl—the boarded window on the second floor, the dumpster overflowing with things I didn’t want to identify, the way darkness seemed to pool between the surrounding buildings.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have entered a place like this for any amount of money.
Two weeks ago, I’d been a different person entirely.
Ty pulled into a spot near the edge of the lot, positioning the truck again for a quick exit. He turned off the engine but left the keys in the ignition. Even that small movement made him pause, breathing through what was obviously a wave of pain.
I reached for the door handle, desperate to lie down, to close my eyes, to pretend for just a few minutes that we weren’t running for our lives.
“Wait.” His hand caught my arm, gentle but firm. “Stay in the truck until I come back.”
“But—”
“No buts. Lock the doors. Keep the keys ready.” He nodded to them in the ignition and briefly reached over to squeeze my hand, transferring warmth I didn’t realize I needed. “If anything happens, if anyone approaches, you drive. Don’t wait for me. Don’t hesitate. Just go.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Charlotte.” His brown eyes held mine, deadly serious despite the blood still caked at his temple. “Promise me. Your safety matters more than mine. You have to get the stabilizer code finished. Thousands of lives are at stake.”
I nodded, the lie sitting heavy in my throat. He climbed out of the truck, and the dome light clicked off, abandoning me to darkness.
“Be careful,” I whispered into the empty cab, though he was already too far away to hear.
The office door swallowed him, and I was alone.
I locked the doors, the click explosively loud in the silence.
My fingers dug into my palms hard enough to leave mooned impressions.
Through the office window, I could see Ty’s silhouette talking to someone behind the counter, his body language deceptively relaxed—but I knew better now.
I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept his back to the wall, how he positioned himself to watch both the clerk and the door.
The neon sign flashed at me in waves—pink, orange, pink again—turning my skin into something alien. Every shadow between the parked cars could hide a threat. Every sound made my heart stutter. A plastic bag skittered across the parking lot, and I nearly screamed.
This was my fault. All of it. Ty’s blood, his pain, this seedy motel in the middle of nowhere. If I’d been less stubborn, less convinced of my own safety in my sterile lab world—
The office door opened. Ty emerged, room key dangling from his fingers. Even from here, I could see the effort each step required.
He’d helped me. Cared for me. Fought for me. And now he kept walking through obvious hurt because I needed protection from the monster I’d helped create.
I sat in that truck, waiting for what came next, and had never felt more alone or more responsible for another person’s suffering in my entire life.