Chapter 11
Hawk
The elevator doors open to normal noise. Not alarms, just the usual conversation of people. Kat’s breathing is still uneven from the smoke as I pull her through the service corridor and out a side exit into open air.
Cold wind hits us, along with the sounds of Cupid City. Sirens are already rising somewhere behind the building.
“Left,” I say.
She doesn’t argue.
We merge into foot traffic spilling across the sidewalk — tourists, shoppers, couples already dressed in red and pink for Valentine’s events. Banners hang from lampposts. Paper hearts line storefront windows. It’s almost crazy how normal it looks.
Kat coughs again.
“You all right?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I know she’s not, but we have to keep going and gain distance before the consortium regroups.
A red trolley rounds the corner ahead of us, brass trim gleaming, windows framed in garlands of artificial roses. “Valentine’s Heritage Tour” painted along the side.
I grab Kat’s hand and pull her toward it. The trolley slows for a stoplight. I don’t wait for a full halt. “Now,” I say.
We climb aboard just as it lurches forward. No one pays attention. We look like another couple running late.
I guide her to a bench near the back. She sinks down, color returning slowly to her face.
“You burned them,” I say quietly.
“Yes, I did.”
“They won’t recover that shipment?”
“No.”
There’s no real triumph in her voice … only finality.
The trolley rattles through downtown, past bakeries advertising heart-shaped pastries, past hotels with red banners draped across balconies, past couples taking pictures under oversized floral arches.
Normal life. Danger dissolves into background. But it isn’t gone.
“They’ll look for you,” I say.
“I know.”
“They’ll look for me.”
“Yes.”
The trolley slows near a row of historic brick hotels. I stand.
“We get off here.”
We step down onto the sidewalk and walk without hurrying toward the nearest entrance — The Belcourt Grand. It’s a beautifully restored historic hotel with polished brass doors. The doorman seems distracted by a delivery truck. Good, the less people notice our faces, the better.
Inside, the lobby is filled with Cupid City valentine décor. It’s warm as well as safe … for now.
I guide her toward the registration desk. The clerk smiles automatically.
“Welcome to the Belcourt,” she says. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No,” I answer. “We need a room.”
She types quickly.
“I’m afraid we’re fully booked for Valentine’s weekend.”
Then she pauses.
“Oh. There was a cancellation this morning.”
Kat stiffens slightly beside me.
“The honeymoon suite,” the clerk continues apologetically. “The bride called it off.”
Cupid City wedding called off? Perfect. I don’t hesitate.
“We’ll take it.”
Kat looks at me briefly. She’s not objecting or maybe even surprised. It’s something else in her expression.
The clerk slides a registration card across the counter and I quickly fill it out and hand her my credit card.
“One king suite. Top floor. Congratulations,” she says brightly, clearly assuming things. “Would you like your luggage brought up?”
“It was delayed and missed our flight. The airline will have it delivered later.”
“I’ll make a note of that. Welcome and let us know if you need anything at all,” she replies, handing me back my card.
The elevator ride this time is slower with less stress. Just the sound of cables and faint lobby music drifting upward. When the doors open onto the top floor, the hallway is carpeted in white and gold. Rose petals scattered intentionally along the baseboards.
The suite door clicks open and inside we find wide windows overlooking Cupid City. There’s a king size four-poster bed draped in sheer fabric, along with a champagne bucket still chilling on the side table with two glasses. A card that reads: Forever Starts Today.
The irony almost makes me laugh. Kat steps inside slowly. The door closes behind us with a solid, final sound.
I turn the deadbolt, then the secondary latch. Crossing the room, I close the curtains. The city disappears behind heavy fabric.
Kat stands in the middle of the room, shoulders squared like she’s still expecting an attack.
“You’re safe,” I say quietly.
“For how long?” she asks.
“As long as I’m breathing.”
That’s not bravado or bullshit. I mean it.
“You probably saved my life by coming up to that suite with me,” she says.
“I wasn’t going to let you do that alone.”
She exhales slowly. The adrenaline is draining now. And something else is rising.
We are in a honeymoon suite with no plan beyond survival. And the tension that kept us upright is shifting into something heavier and more personal.
She looks at me like she did on the rooftop … like she’s deciding something.
The room is warm. The bed is waiting. For now, the danger isn’t outside. It’s what happens if we let the walls drop and take this next level.