Julian
The next airport is smaller than I'd like, which means fewer exits and less room to maneuver if something goes wrong.
I keep my hand on Isabelle's lower back as we move through the terminal, guiding her toward the rental car desk.
She's wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky visible through the windows, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look younger than she is.
She is too young for any of this. But she's handling it better than I expected. No hysterics, no demands to call her father, no threats to go to the police. It tells me she's finally starting to understand how serious the danger is.
I wondered, last night, yet again, if I should just go through with it.
The inevitability of her death, and then mine, if I fail, feels the closest late at night, when it's the most difficult to shut out the noise in my brain.
I have years of practice quieting my mind to silence, but lately it's felt harder than it has since I was a much younger man.
Among other things.
I shove that thought away. That's not our relationship any longer, and if I'd known who she was from the start, it never would have been.
If I'd known from the start, I would have killed her.
That thought strikes me hard, bringing back the sleepless merry-go-round from last night. What is the point of what I'm doing? Why can't I just kill her and be done with it?
This close, a long-range shot that she'll never see coming isn't an option any longer. But I could still make it quick. I could make sure she only has a second to be frightened before it's all over.
This is who I'm supposed to be.
So why can't I make myself do the rational thing? The thing that would save my life, since hers is all but gone already?
I scan the crowd as we walk, cataloging faces and body language as we go.
A middle-aged couple arguing over a map, who look like tourists—no threat to us.
A young man in a leather jacket, smoking near the exit, is distracted by his phone.
There's a security guard by the bathrooms who looks bored and underpaid. No one watching us. No one following.
Yet.
"You're doing that thing again," Isabelle says quietly, her voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the terminal.
I narrow my eyes at her. "Doing what?"
"That thing where you look at everyone like they might pull a gun." She adjusts her sunglasses, tilting her head toward me. "It's unsettling."
"Good. You should be unsettled." I steer her around a family with screaming children and a mountain of luggage. "Stay alert. Don't make eye contact with anyone. Don't draw attention."
"I'm wearing Chanel sunglasses and a silk blouse in the smallest airport I've ever seen. I think I'm already drawing attention."
She's not wrong. Even dressed down—relatively speaking—Isabelle Montague looks like money.
She looks expensive. It's in the way she carries herself, the quality of her clothes, the way she moves as if she has an unconscious expectation that the world will accommodate her.
I should have made her change into something cheaper, something that wouldn't mark her as a target for every opportunistic criminal in the Balkans.
I'm not sure why I didn't, except that I have a feeling that might be the thing that tips her over the edge into no longer complying.
I feel like if I take that last luxury away, strip away her armor, and make her put on something that fits less comfortably, that might be the end of it.
And a part of me likes seeing her like this. The spoiled heiress I fucked until she screamed. I like seeing her and knowing I stripped all that away and made her come undone. I bet no other man has done that. Not like I did.
That line of thinking is dangerous, but it's hard to stifle. Even getting myself off every night in the bathroom or on the couch while she sleeps hasn't been enough to quell my need for her. And a couple of days ago, she almost undid it completely when she confronted me.
I almost made a mistake I couldn't take back. Because fucking her again, knowing who she is, who I am to her, all the lies I've told and all the truth I'm holding back… that would be worse than anything else. That would be unconscionable.
But fuck, I get hard when she yells at me. Almost as hard as literally any other time I see her.
We reach the rental desk, and I hand over a passport and credit card, both under a name that isn't mine.
The clerk barely glances at them before processing the transaction with the boredom of someone who's done this a thousand times.
Five minutes later, we're walking toward a nondescript gray sedan in the parking garage.
I check the car for tracking devices and explosives while motioning for her to wait some distance off.
"Is that really necessary?" she asks when she notices what I'm doing.
"Yes." My voice is curt as I scan the vehicle.
"Have you ever actually found a bomb under a rental car?"
"Twice."
She goes quiet after that. The drive to the hotel takes forty minutes through winding coastal roads with spectacular views.
Isabelle watches the scenery with an expression I can't read, her fingers drumming against her thigh in a nervous rhythm that makes me want to reach over and still them.
I don't. I keep both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road and the rearview mirror, watching for tails.
I cannot touch her again. If I do, I can't be responsible for what happens next.
"I know we're on the run, but—"
Her voice cuts through the silence as we round a corner offering a gorgeous view of the coast, and I glance over at her. "But, what?"
"But… this is weirdly nice," she says softly. "Not the running-from-death thing, obviously. But it's beautiful here. This wasn't on my list of places to go."
I look at her sideways as I drive. "Not high-end enough for you, princess?"
Her soft expression turns to a glare, and I instantly regret needling her. I realize, too late, that she was giving me a vulnerable moment, softening up for a second and showing me something that I see now, after the fact, was important.
I've been closing myself off for so long I forgot how to see those things. And now that she makes me want to, even if I could let this happen, I don't know if I'd even be able to fuck it all up.
"No," she says shortly. "It just wasn't a place I thought of. But what I wanted was to feel far away from everything, and this feels like that. Even if we are running from people who want to kill us."
It's on the tip of my tongue to ask what a rich heiress could possibly need to feel far away from, but I don't. For once, I manage to keep from sniping back at her, and this time, the soft expression on her face doesn't vanish.
She looks so fucking beautiful like that, it hurts. And I keep one eye on her, watching her face, all the way to the hotel.
How can I kill someone who makes me feel like I never want to stop looking at her?
The hotel is a mid-range place that caters to budget-conscious tourists and doesn't ask too many questions.
It's nicer than some of the other places we've stayed in, which should please Isabelle.
I chose it specifically because it's forgettable—no luxury amenities, no concierge service, no security cameras in the hallways.
Its draw is clean rooms and a staff that minds its own business.
I don't let myself think too hard about how much I like the idea that Isabelle might appreciate of the nicer hotel as I park in the back lot and grab our bags from the trunk.
Isabelle follows me inside without speaking, her sunglasses still on, her posture rigid with tension.
The lobby smells like cleaning products and stale coffee.
A bored teenager behind the desk barely looks up as I check us in under another false name.
"One room or two?" he asks in accented English.
"One. Two beds."
Isabelle makes a small sound that might be a laugh or a scoff. I ignore it.
The room is on the third floor, accessible by stairs—or a single elevator that groans ominously when we step inside.
Isabelle stands as far from me as the small space allows, her arms crossed over her chest and her jaw tight.
The elevator lurches upward with a mechanical whine that sets my teeth on edge.
"Charming," she says when we reach our floor. "Really five-star accommodations you've got here."
I huff out a breath, irritation flooding me. I thought she'd like it, after where we've been before. "We're not here for the amenities."
"Clearly."
"I thought you'd like the upgrade, princess." I look over at her, and she flips her sunglasses up, glaring at me, but says nothing.
The room is exactly what I expected—two double beds with thin comforters, a bathroom the size of a closet, and a window that overlooks the parking lot. Isabelle drops her bag on the bed nearest the door and looks around with barely concealed disdain. "This is not an upgrade."
"You'll survive." I set my own bag down and move to the window for escape routes. It's a three-story drop to pavement, which is survivable in an emergency but not ideal. There's a fire escape on the east side of the building, and the parking lot exit leads to a main road with multiple turnoffs.
It'll do.
"How long are we staying here?" Isabelle asks. I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the strain of the last few days catching up with her.
"One night. Maybe two while I figure out the next location."
"And where's the next location?"
"You don't need to know that yet."
"Jesus Christ." She laughs shortly. "You really don't trust me at all, do you?"
"It's not about trust. It's about security."
"Security," she repeats, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that what we're calling this? Because it feels a lot like you treating me like a prisoner."
I glare at her. "You're not a prisoner. You agreed to come with me."