Chapter 2
Knox
I wake up to cold sheets and the wrong side of the bed already losing heat.
The space where her body was is empty, sheets smoothed like she ironed the memory out on her way. Her side is cooling, but her scent lingers. Warm, sweet, a little wild. My lungs pull deeper before I can stop them.
The bed creaks when I sit up.
For a second, half-awake, I think she's in the bathroom.
She's not.
No toothbrush. No suitcase. The chair where she draped her sweater is empty.
My ribs feel hollowed out, still carrying the way she looked at me when she came apart under my mouth. The way she whispered my name like it cost something.
There's no note. Not even a number or a lie she wanted me to keep.
Just the way she flinched when I pulled back and rolled away before I could stop her. Like last night was meant to be survived. My fist closes around sheets that smell of her.
"Lena," I mutter, testing the fake name. It tastes of sweat, skin, and something already gone.
I shower, then dress on autopilot while my brain plays a highlight reel I didn't ask for.
Fingers in my hair, legs trembling around me, that little gasp when I pulled her closer.
I take the stairs up one floor to grab my bag.
Room sixteen looks exactly the way I left it: laptop dark on the desk, messenger bag packed.
Laptop goes in the bag. I sling it over my shoulder and head down.
At checkout, I ask the clerk if the woman in 1512 left a message. He checks. She didn't. Didn't even turn in her key.
"Everything satisfactory with your stay?"
"Perfect."
Outside, Chicago's cold hits harder. Sharp wind, busy streets, too many people who don't look twice.
I flip my collar up, chin down, moving on instinct.
By the time I cut behind the chain pharmacy toward the nearest public lot, my mind locks into mission mode.
Check upload status. Wipe the burner. Route out. Dump car. Vanish.
Easy routine.
The lot is half-full, asphalt cracked, a graffiti mural giving too much away about the artist's lack of anatomy knowledge. My rental waits beneath a dying security light, windows fogged like it's breathing.
I thumb open the burner and shoot Malachi the drop link. His copy to pull, his problem now.
A confirmation flashes across the screen. Sent.
Job done.
I'm slipping the phone away when the air shifts.
That prickle at the back of my neck hits, the one that's kept me alive. Footsteps too light. Breath too fast. I turn, but not fast enough. Something slams into my ribs, hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
A small, familiar body hits mine with panic-soaked strength.
I grab her shoulders before my brain catches up.
She looks smaller in daylight. More fragile. Her pupils have swallowed the beautiful hazel. Hair a wild mess, last night's careful composure gone.
She's breathing too shallow, gaze locked on to something behind me.
The grip isn't random. It's precise. She picked her mark.
Two men stand at the mouth of the lot. Tailored coats.
Expensive shoes. Moving with the patient confidence of men who've never had to chase anyone, because whoever they want rarely gets far.
They haven't clocked her yet. Their eyes sweep the lot in a grid, systematic, but she hit me from the blind side of the building.
For now, I'm just a guy leaning against a rental.
Private security. High-dollar, asset-protecting.
Fingers dig into my arm, nails biting through my jacket. A sound escapes her. Small, strangled, one she probably hates herself for making.
I snap into focus.
I shift, putting myself between her and them. No suitcase. No bag. She ran with nothing. I make myself the obstacle. My hand slides to the back of her neck, thumb brushing her pulse.
It kicks against her skin. Twice as fast as it was last night.
Two targets. I can put them both down before they reach the car.
"Get in," I keep my voice low, meant only for her.
She goes still, except for the tremor running through her.
Then she follows the pressure of my hand, folding into the passenger seat, curling in on herself like she's trying to make her bones smaller.
I close her door softly just in case the noise might give her away.
I stay by the car, phone out, pretending to scroll.
My pulse is steady. My muscles are loose.
I'm boredom and bad posture. Every nerve underneath is stripped and sparking.
The men walk the lot methodically. No calling out. No questions.
They're not looking for someone trying to hide. They're looking for someone who knows how to and they're hunting.
And they think their prey can't do a damn thing about it.
One scans the row of cars, eyes sliding over me without sticking. I look like a man killing time, waiting for someone who'll never show.
They speak quietly, then split. One heads toward the street, the other walks the line of cars, close enough I can see the earpiece under his collar.
I let him walk past me.
When their footsteps fade, I slide into the driver's seat. She's wound tight, arms wrapped around her knees, knuckles white through denim. Her face is turned toward the window, but she's not seeing anything in front of her.
Her pupils are still blown wide, fixed on the side mirror.
I turn the key. The engine coughs, heater kicking on, air blasting through the vents.
Every instinct screams at me to move. Get her out. Get distance. Make this alley disappear behind us.
"Who were they?" I ask.
She flinches, but not because of me. She flinches at the two men she can still see in the mirror.
Jaw works. Nothing comes out.
"People I should have left behind." Her voice is frayed at the edges, more than I expected.
"You're going to tell me what the hell is going on," I say, because I need a target besides the image of her slamming into me like I'm the last solid thing in her world.
Her lids drop. She shakes.
"Go," she chokes out. "Now. Expressway." Her eyes flick open, locking onto the mirror.
So I do. Her hands shake in her lap the whole way to the expressway, and I drive faster.