Chapter 4 #2
She wraps her arms around herself again, smaller than before. I grab my burner from my bag and flip it open. Should have wiped it after the Whitcomb job. That protocol died in a parking lot.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Checking if we left a trail."
I pull up a browser, fingers moving fast. Local news sites first. Then Chicago outlets. Then I see it. My jaw tightens.
"Knox?" Small. Afraid. "What is it?"
I turn the screen toward her. Prominent Chicago Physician Seeks Missing Daughter. The article is short. Sanitized. Carefully worded.
Dr. Harrison Mercer is seeking the public's assistance in locating his daughter, Sloane Mercer, 26, who disappeared from the family's Chicago residence two days ago.
Dr. Mercer reports his daughter has "fallen in with concerning influences" and may be in danger.
The prominent physician, known for his philanthropic work and connections throughout the city, has offered a substantial reward for information leading to her safe return.
Anyone with information is urged to contact Chicago Police or the Mercer family directly.
Sloane reads it once. Twice. The color leaves her face.
"Concerning influences," she whispers.
"He's painting you as a victim," I say. "And me as the threat."
Her hands curl into fists. "He's mobilizing."
"Yeah." I close the burner and set it aside. "Public appeal means private hunters. He's throwing money and connections at this. Every cop, PI, and opportunist with a phone will be looking for you."
"How long do I have?"
"Before someone gets lucky?" I rake my fingers through my hair. "A week. Maybe less if he's smart about it."
She sinks onto the edge of the bed, spine curved, fingers tight in her sweater.
"I should've known," she says. "I should've—"
"You couldn't have stopped this." I cross to her, then crouch so we're eye level. "He was always going to come after you. The only question was how fast."
Her eyes shine. "So what do I do?"
"You let me fix it."
She stares at me, searching for proof that I'm not lying.
"You can't go back," I say. "You can't hide alone. He'll find you."
She swallows hard. "I know."
"Your father escalated to boots on the ground tonight. That's the most dangerous phase. As long as you stay legally tied to him, you're traceable. Every system you touch becomes a leash. Bank accounts. Credit cards. Your nursing license. Your social security number. All of it leads to him."
"So what do I do?" she asks again, voice cracking.
I lean in. The words stall in my throat. Then the need to lock this down wins.
"You marry me."
Her mouth falls open. The sound that escapes is sharp and disbelieving. "What?"
"You marry me," I repeat. "Take my last name. Everything tied to Mercer breaks. He loses the leash."
She shakes her head before I've finished. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
Anger cuts through fear. "You want to fix this with a ring? You think I can just—" She's already refusing. "I can't do that to you. I can't trap you in my mess."
"This isn't romance," I say. "It's paperwork and protection."
She's breathing too fast, fingers clutching the sheets. "Knox, that's… crazy."
"It's necessary."
"No," she breathes. "No, I-I can't do that to you."
I tilt my head. "Do what to me?"
"Trap you," she says. "Tie you to my mess. Make you responsible for saving me. I don't want to owe you my freedom."
A reflex hardens in me, low and instinctive. "I'm not your father." Her stare snaps to mine like a blow. "You don't owe me," I say, voice dropping. "You don't trap me. I choose what I walk into."
She looks as though she might break. "What do you get out of this?" she whispers.
You. The word almost makes it out. I hold her gaze and swallow it down.
"Stability," I say. "You safe. The threat neutralized. The variables controlled."
She won't stop refusing. "It's too much."
"It's the cleanest cut," I counter. "The only one that sticks. He just went public. That article? That's him mobilizing. Law enforcement, private investigators, every connection he has. As long as you're legally tied to him, the systems they touch will lead them here."
Tears threaten. "Then what? I become your wife and just… disappear?"
"You become Sloane Turner," I correct. "And you get to live."
She whispers, "You're asking me to trust you with my whole life."
"No," I murmur. "You already did when you ran to me tonight. You chose me in that lot. I'm giving you the plan that keeps you alive."
Silence hangs like a held breath. Her chin trembles. Her voice is paper thin. "Okay." The word is barely there. "Just… until I'm safe. Then we can undo it." She swallows, the last of her volume dropping away. "Don't—please don't make me regret this."
I nod once. "That's understood. Nothing happens without your say."
Her stare stays locked on mine. Dark. Pupils blown the same way they were last night. Then she looks down at her hands, afraid of what I'll see if she doesn't.
"What do you need from me?"
"No lying," I say instantly. "No disappearing. You follow my instructions. You stick with me."
A trembling nod. "Okay."
"Good," I murmur.
The room hums. Heater rattles. Fridge ticks. Some TV two doors down bleeds bad dialogue through thin walls. I let the silence stand. Let her breathe in it.
"You should sleep," I say eventually.
She glances at the bed, then at me. "I won't be able to."
"Try. I'll be awake. Door locked. Nothing gets past me."
"You've done enough," she protests weakly. "You don't have to sit up all night."
"Yeah, I do."
She wants to argue but doesn't have the energy. She kicks off her boots and moves deeper onto the bed, never turning fully away from me. Curls on her side, facing the door, hands tucked to her chest as if she's expecting someone to rip them away.
I drag the crap chair closer to the door and drop into it. The frame creaks under my weight. I plant my boots. One hand rests on my thigh. The other digs into my bag and finds the Glock I packed in Chicago. It settles on my knee, within reach.
She watches me. "You're really going to sit there?"
"Yeah."
She huffs a tiny, broken almost-laugh. "You're insane."
"Probably," I say. "Go to sleep, Sloane."
Her lashes lower, as if it hurts to let go of control. Her breathing is uneven at first, catching every few seconds as adrenaline fights exhaustion. Eventually, it deepens.
I sit in the semi-dark, watching the door, listening to the motel breathe.
Cars come and go. Pipes groan. Someone laughs too loudly on the walkway outside, then stumbles on.
My thoughts drift south. Mississippi. Willowridge.
Malachi. I picture his reaction when I roll into the yard with a shell-shocked woman in my passenger seat and a marriage plan in my back pocket.
I've done some reckless things for this club. For our town. For Malachi.
The courthouse paperwork runs through my head. The way her name will look on the line beside mine. Sloane Mercer scratched out in some system and replaced with Sloane Turner. The pen won't shake when I sign it.
Dawn drags gray light across the ceiling, peeling the shadows loose.
My neck aches from the chair. My legs are stiff.
On the bed, Sloane is a small, tangled shape near the middle.
One hand tucked under her cheek, hair a dark spill across the pillow.
At some point in the night, the tension eased enough to hint at what she might look like without fear carved into it.
Confusion crosses her expression as she blinks awake. She finds me first. Sweeps over the chair, my posture, the gun still within reach. Then her gaze drags up to mine and holds.
"So it wasn't a dream," she says hoarsely.
"Nope."
She pushes up, hair falling across her cheek. "You look like you should be dead."
"Flattering." I pause. "We still going through with this?"
She looks down at her hands, then up. Her gaze is clearer than last night. Still scared. Still shaken. But her jaw is set.
"You said you had a plan," she says quietly. "I don't have one. So… yes. We're doing it."
I nod once. "Here's the order of operations. We get out of Illinois. We put hours and miles between you and last night. When we hit Mississippi, we file what we need to file. Then you stop being Mercer."
"And start being Turner," she murmurs.
I stand, and her eyes track the movement, lingering a second too long on my chest before snapping to mine. Her cheeks flush. She looks away. But I saw it.
My mouth curves. "Yeah. That's the idea."
She tests it under her breath, barely audible. "Sloane Turner."
My stomach tightens. I didn't expect two words to land that hard.
"Knoxville Turner," I say, because she deserves the truth. "That's the full version, if you want to regret signing up for this."
Her brows kick up. "Your full name is Knoxville?"
"Don't make it a thing," I warn.
She stares at me, expression caught between disbelief and warmth.
I huff a quiet laugh. "You marry me, not the name. The name's just the paperwork."
She presses her lips together and drops her gaze, fingers twisting in the sheet. "Right."
The word lands heavier than it should.
"We'll grab coffee, gas, and go. You want the bathroom first?"
She nods. "Yeah. Thank you." My chest catches on those two words.
I send a quick, encrypted message to Malachi.
Her name, the situation in broad strokes, what I need ready when we arrive.
I'd rather not fire signals this early, but we'll need groundwork started.
The water cuts off. A minute later, she emerges.
Her hair is damp, face scrubbed bare. She looks younger.
More breakable. The bare skin makes the shadows under her eyes darker, the freckles sharper.
She pauses at the threshold, glances back once. At the version of herself that walked in last night. Then she steps out.
We're rolling five minutes later; the sun drags itself over the horizon in streaks of dull gold and weak blue. The highway opens ahead with clean gray lines and exit signs that don't mean anything yet. I spot her watching me in the side mirror.
When I adjust my hold on the wheel, she tracks the motion. When I glance her way, she turns to the window too fast. But I saw it.
"How far is Mississippi?" she asks eventually.
"Twelve hours if you drive straight through," I say. "We won't. We'll break it up."
She inclines her head. "And your town?"
"Small. Tight. Everyone knows everyone. Outsiders don't stay unnoticed long."
"And you're… what? The security detail?" There’s wryness under the exhaustion.
"Something like that. I run point for The Outsiders. They run the town."
"The Outsiders," she says, testing the word.
"Yeah."
She chews on that for a minute. "And they'll just… accept me? Like this?"
"No," I say honestly. "They'll question everything. Push you. Test you. But once they decide you're in? They'll burn the world down before they let anyone take you."
Her fingers flex. "You sound sure."
"I am."
Her shoulders gradually inch down from around her ears. Around noon, I pull off at a gas station attached to a diner that's seen better decades. The lot is mostly empty. Cameras are old. It'll do.
"Come on," I say, shutting off the engine. "You need real food."
She hesitates. "I'm not really—"
"Hungry, yeah, I know. You need it anyway."
Inside, the diner is warm, loud with fryer oil and the clatter of plates. A waitress with tired eyes and a kind mouth leads us to a booth near the back. Sloane stares at her laminated menu.
"Do you trust me to order?" She looks at me, startled. Then nods. She's too fried to make another choice. "Two coffees," I tell the waitress. "Two waters. One cheeseburger, plain. One grilled chicken sandwich, no sauce. Fries on both."
Sloane watches me as if I've just done a reckless thing. "You didn't even ask what I wanted."
"You weren't going to answer. This is neutral. You can pick it apart if you need to."
Her lips curve slightly. "You… do this a lot?"
"Make sure people don't collapse because they forgot how to take care of themselves?" I shrug. "Sometimes."
The food comes. She picks at it; pulls apart a fry, nudges the sandwich around the plate. Then she takes a bite. Then another. Half the sandwich disappears, along with a handful of fries. I file that away as a win.
She asks small questions between bites, testing the waters.
"Why don't you like flying?"
I snort. "Too much trust in too many idiots."
"Control thing?"
"Survival thing."
"When did you leave the military?"
"Years ago."
"Why?"
"Because they wanted me to do things for flags, and I wanted to do them for people."
She goes still; her gaze turns inward.
I ask my own questions. "What kind of nursing?"
She shrugs. "Trauma. ER. ICU. They move you where they want you."
"You liked it?"
"Yes." She pauses, and her mouth pulls tight at one corner. "And no. I like fixing things. I hate watching them break first."
I get that more than she knows.
We hit the road again. Her eyes drift closed, but not before they track to me one more time. Checking I'm still here. Still watching.
Sunlight catches the faint freckles across her nose, the bruised shadows beneath her eyes. Her hand rests palm-up on her thigh, fingers relaxed, vulnerable in a way she'd never allow awake.
My jaw locks. My knuckles go white on the wheel.
Somewhere near the state line, a battered green sign flashes past. The top line reads Leaving Illinois. The bottom says Kentucky. Might as well say Somewhere Else.
I glance at her. One more state line crossed. One more thread cut.
Out loud, I just say, "We're getting closer."
She blinks awake and turns toward me, eyes still soft with sleep. Then awareness kicks in, and she straightens, putting distance between us even though we're already in separate seats.
"Closer to what?"
"To the territory," I say. "Mine, for now. Your safest option until we know what we're up against."
She studies my profile, trying to decide if I mean it.
I do.