Chapter 38
Royal
The motel room is too quiet.
Too dim.
Too damn close.
A cracked lampshade gives off a weak jaundiced glow, flickering over threadbare carpet and cigarette burns that look like a crime scene no one bothered to tape off. The curtains breathe with the AC unit like the room itself is watching.
Behind me, Becki rustles through the cheap plastic bag from the corner store, the one with the flickering fluorescent tubes and the clerk who eyeballed her like she was for sale. I almost broke his jaw. Should’ve.
I sit at the tiny table by the window, old news clippings on my screen. Missing persons’ reports. Revival circuits tied to unexplained vanishings.
The Demon Leaper.
I should laugh at the name. I don’t. Not after hearing something on that rooftop. Not after the claw marks in the basement.
Not with Becki sleeping three feet away, in the other bed, so I don’t touch her and seal my fate. Not with her gasping from nightmares that sound too much like my own. Visions that have leathery wings and talons.
Another article. Another screenshot. Another girl the world forgot.
Something’s hunting.
Or someone wearing a myth like a mask.
“Royal?” Becki’s voice breaks the silence.
I glance up.
She’s standing by the dresser, fingers curled in the hem of her shirt. There’s a blood smear near her hip from where her wrist leaks. Her eyes look tired. Her skin too pale. But she’s still defiant enough to ruin me.
“I need to change,” she says.
I nod, but I don’t turn around.
I should.
I don’t.
She pulls the tank top over her head, slow, unhurried, like she wants me to see how much she ain’t afraid.
The lamplight catches the curve of her bare back, the black strap of her new bra, the way her spine dips just before meeting her waistband.
The bandage there and under it my name claim carved into her flesh.
My grip tightens around my phone until it creaks.
She slips into a fresh shirt, says, Kentucky Derby Queen, pink glitter purposely faded. Should look ridiculous. Instead it punches the air from my lungs.
“You gonna keep ogling,” she says, crossing her arms. “Or are we planning how to kill a demon tonight?”
“Not killing anything until we understand it.”
“Then what do you call that thing on the roof?” she pushes.
“An evil man,” I snap. “Or something that learned how to scare people with one.”
Her expression flickers. She sits on the edge of the bed, one knee tucked under her, lips tight.
“You think it hunts girls like me?”
“No,” I say. “I think it hunts girls your father pretends to save.”
That lands. Hard.
She chews the inside of her cheek, jaw trembling with something she doesn’t want me to see. Not fear. Shame.
“There’s a locked cabinet in his office,” she says softly. “I’ve never seen inside.”
“Then we survive tonight,” I say, standing and grabbing my jacket. “So we can open it.”
I toss her a hoodie. She puts it on without argument. That alone scares me more than anything in the clippings.
We gear up. Walk the Louisville alleys. Climb the fire escape. Watch the shadows breathe.
And something watches back.
We find nothing. When it’s over. when the rooftop stays empty but the dread thickens. We return to the motel, silent.
Becki goes to the bathroom. Washes her face. Brushes her hair. Moves like she’s trying to shake something loose inside her.
I sit at the table again, but the words blur now. The door creaks. She’s next to me again, wrist wrapped in clean gauze.
I reach out.
Check the bandage. My fingers brush her skin. She shivers.
“You need rest,” I say.
“So do you.”
I look up. Her face is inches from mine. Her breath warm. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide enough to drown in.
I should pull away.
I don’t.
My hand slides to her jaw. Thumb to her mouth. She leans in. Her lips brush mine, soft as sin.
Then everything snaps.
We crash together like a collision we’ve been avoiding for years. Her hands clutch my shoulders. Mine grab her waist, dragging her into my lap. The chair screeches.
My breath breaks.
Her thighs tighten around me.
She grinds once.
I groan into her mouth.
“Royal…” she whispers, desperate, wrecked, wanting.
That word. My name.
It destroys me.
I tear my mouth away before I do something unforgivable. Something to get me thrown out of the Kings.
She stares at me, dazed.
“Why?” she breathes. “Why’d you stop?”
I grip her hips hard enough to bruise. My voice is ruined.
“Because I want this too much,” I rasp. “Because if I don’t stop now, I won’t stop at all. And Legend.”
She lifts a hand to my cheek. Tracing. Softening me in ways she shouldn’t know how to. “Don’t say that name. Don’t stop,” she whispers.
For one second, one brutal heartbeat, I almost obey.
Then self-loathing punches through the heat.
“I’m the man holding the leash,” I say, stepping back like she burned me. “And you… you make me want to let go.”
Her breath catches.
A flinch she tries to hide.
I turn away.
To the window.
To the dark.
To anything that ain’t her.
When I finally look back, she’s curled on the bed, trembling with everything I refused to take.
I whisper her name once. She doesn’t answer. The shadows outside shift. And I know this ain’t the end of it.
I wake before dawn.
Not from sleep. From punishment. The memory of her on my lap. Her kiss. Her breath. Her hands on my cock. The taste of her. I sit up fast, chest heaving, jaw clenched until something cracks behind my teeth.
She’s still asleep. Spread on the other bed, fanned out like she belongs in the aftermath of sin. Her shirt twisted. Her lips swollen from my mouth.
A mistake. A weakness. A crack in the armor I can’t afford. I stand. Dress. Holster my gun. Slip the knife into my boot. All without looking at her.
Emotion is a luxury. Desire is a liability. And Becki Crowley is both. I’m almost out the door when she stirs.
“Royal?” Her voice is rough. “You’re leaving?”
“Getting coffee.”
Cold.
Sharp.
Lie.
She sits up, blanket falling to her waist. “You’re avoiding me.”
“Not avoiding.” I grab my jacket.
“Correcting.”
Her brows lift, fury sparking. “Correcting what?”
My breath knots.
I don’t turn around.
“You and me,” I say flatly. “Shouldn’t have happened.”
She laughs, a broken sound. “Right. Got it. Just a moment of weakness, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“You want me.”
“I wanted distraction.”
Becki stands so fast the bed squeaks. “Look at me.”
I don’t.
“Royal.” Her voice cracks like a whip. “Look. At. Me.”
Against every survival instinct, I turn.
She looks wrecked. Beautiful. Angry enough to tear the world apart.
“Tell me it didn’t mean anything,” she whispers. “You saying I’m yours. The knife. Go on.”
“It didn’t.” A lie so sharp it tastes like blood.
She flinches but recovers fast.
Her jaw sets.
Her chin lifts.
“Fine,” she says. “You want cold? I can do cold.”
Taking the jacket from my hands, she pushes past me, shoulder slamming into my chest hard enough to bruise.
The door swings shut behind her.
For a long, suffocating moment, I don’t move. Then I punch the doorframe hard enough to split my knuckles.
Because letting her go was the right thing.
This time… I hate being right.