Chapter 19 #2
“You shouldn’t have been here,” I snarl, not at him but at the world that dared put him in danger. “This territory is unstable. I should have turned us back sooner.”
Elias swallows, then looks up at me, eyes bright with adrenaline and raw need—heat that curls unmistakably through the air between us.
“Boone,” he says again, voice shaking, “you were—” He stops, clearly struggling for words.
I scent him then, the sharp edge of fear still there, but threaded through with heady arousal. The realization hits me square in the chest.
Oh.
I bare my teeth in what might be a smile if I weren’t still vibrating with rage. “Do not,” I say roughly, “tell me you found that impressive.”
His cheeks flush violently. “I—what? No, I—”
“You did,” I interrupt. “I can smell it.”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s wildly unfair.”
I huff despite myself, the tension easing just a fraction. Unfurling ferns help me, the urge to preen is strong—too strong—but I shove it aside with effort.
“This place is not safe,” I say firmly. “We’re leaving. Now.”
He nods immediately, no argument, no hesitation. “Okay. Where?”
“Somewhere with walls,” I reply. “Lights. Humans. I don’t care.”
A motel, then.
The word forms fully in my mind, bringing with it a fresh wave of irritation and resolve. It means roads and keys and front desks and me shifting into a form I despise wearing for too long.
But Elias is shaken. Still processing. Still riding the edge of fear and trust. I won’t risk him again tonight.
“We’ll get a room,” I say.
He reaches out, fingers curling around my wrist, grounding me this time. “Okay, whatever you think we need to do. I trust you.”
The simple statement hits harder than any threat ever could. I nod once. “Then stay close.”
We move out together, my senses still flared, every step deliberate. The danger may have passed, but the aftershock lingers—charged, intimate, undeniable. I have to shift before getting back in the car, which puts me on edge, knowing I can’t protect him as well in this form.
But I do it for Elias. To keep him safe.
As the lights of the small town come into view, I give it a quick appraisal. The town is small.
That’s my first assessment as we roll into it.
It’s small, sleepy, the kind of place that exists because the road passes through and not much else.
One main street, a handful of buildings, a diner with lights still on despite the late hour.
It smells like oil and old wood and human habitation layered over land that remembers what it was before.
Elias sits quietly in the passenger seat.
Not withdrawn—just contained. His hands are folded in his lap, fingers worrying lightly at the edge of his jacket. His gaze tracks the passing storefronts, the flicker of neon, the way the dark presses close beyond the reach of streetlights.
I don’t like how shaken he still feels. I don’t like that something frightened him enough to linger like this. And I really don’t like how much I want to wrap him in my arms and promise that nothing will ever get close to him again.
He parks in front of the motel without asking my opinion. It’s functional. Two stories. Balconies that overlook the lot. Enough light to deter most things that prefer shadow.
“This okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say immediately. “This is good.”
I step out of the truck and shift before he can protest. Human form still settles over me like an ill-fitting coat—limiting, heavy, but necessary. I hate how much of myself I have to tuck away, how quiet everything becomes. But Elias is safe, and that matters more.
He steps out too, glancing around, then back at me. His eyes linger, dark and intent, tracking me with an awareness that tightens low in my belly.
We walk toward the front desk together, not touching, but close enough that our arms brush. The air between us hums.
The woman behind the counter barely looks up as I request a room. Her attention flicks between us just long enough to assess—two men, road-worn, tense—and then she slides a key across the counter without comment.
“Upstairs,” she says. “End unit.”
I take the key. Metal. Solid. A small, ordinary thing that feels strangely momentous in my hand.
Elias follows me up the stairs, his footsteps quiet. The walkway creaks beneath our combined weight. When I unlock the door and push it open, the room smells faintly of cleaner and old carpet.
Walls. A ceiling. A door that locks. Safety.
Elias exhales as soon as he steps inside, the sound shaky but relieved. He drops his pack near the bed and rubs his face with both hands, then looks at me like he’s suddenly unsure what to do next.
I close the door behind us. The click of the lock sounds louder than it should.
For a long moment, we just stand there.
The adrenaline hasn’t left him yet. I can still sense it, sharp and bright beneath his skin, braided now with desire, trust, the echo of being protected. It curls in the air between us, thick and undeniable.
“You scared me,” I say finally.
He looks up at me, startled. “I—Boone, but I didn’t—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not angry at you,” I cut in, voice low and firm. “I’m angry that I didn’t turn us back sooner.”
His shoulders ease slightly. “You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have felt it faster.”
“You did,” he insists. “You got us out. You kept me safe.”
The words hit deep.
I take a step toward him without thinking. He doesn’t retreat. If anything, he leans in, drawn like there’s a line pulling him straight to my chest.
“I will always keep you safe,” I say, and the truth of it is absolute enough to scare me.
He swallows. “I know.”
Silence stretches again, taut and charged.
“I was terrified,” he admits quietly. “And then you stepped in front of me and everything else just… faded. I’ve never felt that kind of certainty before.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “That certainty can be dangerous.”
“Maybe,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “But it felt right.”
That—that—is the problem.
I cross the remaining distance between us in two strides and cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, grounding us both. His breath catches. His hands come up instinctively, gripping my wrists like he needs the anchor.
“You don’t get to scare me like that,” I murmur.
A smile ghosts across his mouth. “You don’t get to scare me like that either.”
Despite myself, a low laugh rumbles out of me. “Fair.”
I lean in, pressing my forehead to his, breathing him in. It’s so much easier with just a few inches between us. The motel room feels too small suddenly, the walls pressing close around everything we’re not saying.
“Do you know what that thi—cryptid,” he corrects quickly with a blush. “Do you know what species it was? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
That stops me.
I pull back just enough to look at him properly, and I realize he isn’t asking out of idle curiosity. He’s still shaken. Still trying to fit what happened into a framework that makes sense.
“I don’t,” I admit.
His brows knit together. “You don’t… recognize it?”
“No.” The word comes out heavier than I expect. I drop my hands, pacing a short line across the room before turning back to him. “I’ve been on this continent a long time. I know what belongs here. I know what wanders here. That creature didn’t feel like either.”
“What did it feel like?” he asks quietly.
I search for the right words. “Wrong. Displaced. Like it was wearing this land instead of being part of it.” I shake my head. “It wasn’t rooted. No history in the soil. No echo.”
His eyes widen slightly. “So… not native.”
“No.” My jaw tightens. “There are cryptids—species—that exist elsewhere. Asia. Eastern Europe. Parts of Africa. Some of them are aggressive. Some of them are old enough that the legends about them aren’t warnings so much as survival records.”
That gets his full attention.
“And you think—”
“I don’t know,” I cut in, honest. “But I’m concerned. Enough that I’ll need to reach out to my contacts.” I grimace faintly. “I don’t talk to the international Network as often as I should. Time zones. Politics. Personal preference.”
He huffs softly. “Of course there’s cryptid politics.”
“There’s always politics,” I mutter. Then, more seriously, I say, “If something crossed over, or was driven here, or slipped through a boundary that shouldn’t be thinning yet… that’s not small.”
He nods slowly, absorbing it all. “So tonight wasn’t just bad luck?”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”
Silence settles again, but this time it’s thoughtful rather than raw.
After a moment, Elias exhales and rolls his shoulders, like he’s shedding the last of the adrenaline. “Okay,” he says. “That’s… tomorrow’s problem.”
I pause. “It is?”
“Absolutely.” He steps closer, close enough that I can feel his warmth again. “Tonight’s problem is that I smell like fear and road dust, and I would really like to shower.”
My mouth quirks despite myself. “Alone?”
He tilts his head, eyes bright now—mischief creeping back in around the edges. “I was hoping you’d want to save water.”
I study him for a beat, then sigh. “That bathroom is going to be… inadequate.”
“Tiny,” Elias agrees cheerfully. “Criminally so.”
“And yet,” I say, already knowing how this ends.
“And yet,” he echoes.
He reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head with easy confidence, then turns and hooks a finger in the elastic of my gray sweatpants, giving it a gentle, insistent pull toward the bathroom.