3. Sloane
THREE
SLOANE
The corridor stretched ahead of them like a warm embrace carved from honey-colored wood, its walls adorned with landscape paintings that captured the raw beauty of mountain wilderness.
Soft lighting cast golden pools along the polished hardwood floors, and the scent of cedar and pine created an atmosphere so different from the concrete and exhaust fumes of her city life that Sloane felt her shoulders unconsciously relaxing for the first time in hours.
This place feels like another world entirely.
Each step took her further from the violence and chaos that had driven her here, the memory of those two men and their employer's mysterious agenda seeming to fade with every yard of distance between her and the lobby.
Her hand still tingled from where Kozue's fingers had brushed hers when he'd offered to carry her duffel bag—a sensation she was determinedly ignoring because attraction was the last complication she needed right now.
But ignoring his presence proved impossible when he moved beside her with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable in his own skin.
He was tall enough that she had to glance up to study his profile, and handsome in a way that made her chest tighten with unwelcome awareness.
The kind of man who probably had women falling over themselves to get his attention, which made his kindness toward a battered stranger even more puzzling.
Stop it. You just met him. You're running from dangerous people. This is not the time to notice how his shoulders fill out that shirt.
The silence between them felt charged with tension she couldn't quite identify. Kozue seemed to be fighting some internal battle. His jaw was set and his green eyes were focused straight ahead as if looking at her might be dangerous.
Maybe showing up here unannounced really did throw off their whole system. He's probably got a million things to do, and now he's stuck playing babysitter to some woman who crashed their evening with cash and bruises.
Guilt twisted in her stomach. These people—Ronan and Kozue—had shown her more kindness in thirty minutes than she'd received from most people in months, and she was already disrupting their lives.
But gratitude warred with that familiar voice in her head that whispered she shouldn't get comfortable depending on anyone's generosity.
They reached the end of the corridor where a heavy wooden door bore a brass number plate. Kozue stopped and turned to face her, his movement bringing him close enough that she caught the faint scent of something woodsy and masculine that made her pulse quicken despite her best efforts.
"Thank you for letting me stay here," she said, meeting his gaze directly even though those green eyes made her feel exposed in ways she didn't appreciate. "I know I just showed up here looking like something the cat dragged in, and you guys probably have enough to deal with."
The words came out steadier than she felt, but honesty seemed important when someone was offering sanctuary to a stranger carrying suspicious amounts of cash and fresh battle wounds.
Kozue's entire expression shifted, his controlled mask slipping to reveal something that looked almost... protective. When he spoke, his voice carried a warmth that seemed to wrap around her like a blanket.
"First off, you don't look like something the cat dragged in. You look..."
He paused, and she watched something flicker across his features.
His eyes darkened as they swept over her face, and for a moment the air between them crackled with an awareness so potent it made her skin flush.
Whatever he'd been about to say hung in the space between them, unspoken but somehow louder than words.
He's attracted to me too.
The realization hit her like a punch. The way his gaze lingered on her lips before jerking back to her eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the careful distance he maintained—all signs she recognized because she was feeling the same dangerous pull.
This is exactly what I can't afford right now.
"You look exhausted," he finally finished, though something in his tone suggested those weren't the words he'd originally intended.
She almost laughed at the diplomatic substitution but settled for a wry smile instead. "Well, I am pretty tired. It was a crazy night, and I didn't think I'd end up in this situation. But I'm used to being uprooted, so I can handle it."
Uprooted. What a gentle way to describe having your life blown apart by mysterious men with violent intentions.
Kozue reached for the door handle, his movements precise despite the tension radiating from his frame, and he pushed the door open.
"I'm sorry you had a rough night," he said, his deep voice carrying genuine regret that surprised her. "And sorry about whatever brought you here. But you're safe here, and like I said earlier, you can stay however long you need."
He moved into the room ahead of her, and Sloane followed, then stopped dead in the doorway as her eyes took in the space that was apparently hers.
This has to be some kind of mistake.
The guest room was enormous—easily twice the size of her entire apartment back in the city.
A king-sized bed dominated one wall, its frame carved from the same honey-colored wood as the corridor, dressed in linens so crisp and white they looked like they belonged in a luxury hotel.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered what would probably be a breathtaking view of the mountains in daylight, and a stone fireplace created a cozy seating area with leather chairs that looked like they cost more than she made in six months.
There was even a small kitchenette tucked into one corner, complete with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances that gleamed under the warm lighting.
This isn't a guest room. This is a suite. And they're probably going to charge me accordingly.
Her stomach clenched as she mentally calculated how long her eleven thousand dollars might last if she was staying in accommodations like this. She'd need to ask about switching to something more affordable tomorrow—assuming they had anything more affordable.
Kozue set her duffel bag down near the bed with careful precision, and when he straightened, the air in the room seemed to shift. The space that had felt enormous moments before suddenly contracted, the distance between them crackling with an energy that made her skin feel too tight.
She stepped further into the room, hyperaware of his presence. "Thank you. Again."
The simple words felt inadequate for everything he and Ronan had done for her tonight, but gratitude had never come easily to someone who'd learned early that accepting help usually came with strings attached.
Kozue moved toward the door, but paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the frame as he looked back at her.
In the soft lighting of the room, his features seemed more sharply defined, and the intensity in his green eyes made her pulse spike despite every rational thought screaming at her to maintain emotional distance.
"Goodnight, Sloane." Her name sounded different in his voice—warmer somehow. "Breakfast is at seven, if you're interested."
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.
Sloane stood alone in the luxurious room, surrounded by more comfort and safety than she'd experienced in years, and tried to ignore the way her skin still hummed with awareness from his presence.
This is temporary, she reminded herself firmly. Just until you figure out who's after you and why. Don't get comfortable. Don't get attached. And definitely don't start thinking about how his eyes darkened when he looked at you.
Sloane crossed the room to where her duffel bag rested near the bed, lifting it with ease and carrying it to the polished oak dresser that dominated one wall.
The bag felt lighter than usual—everything she owned in the world reduced to a few changes of clothes, toiletries, and the remnants of a life she'd built from nothing.
This place doesn't feel real.
The guest room stretched around her like something from a magazine spread, all warm wood tones and carefully curated comfort. The windows revealed nothing but darkness beyond the glass, but she could sense the vastness of the wilderness surrounding them.
The silence here was different from the city—deeper, more complete.
No sirens, no traffic, no sounds of neighbors fighting through paper-thin walls.
She caught her reflection in the dresser mirror and paused, studying the woman staring back at her.
Bruised knuckles. A cut on her cheek from where Roxy had managed to land a lucky hit.
Hair still damp with sweat from the fight that felt like it had happened in another lifetime.
You're awake. This is real. Those men really tried to take you, and you're really here.
The mirror didn't lie, but everything else about this situation felt like stepping into someone else's dream.
The luxury surrounding her was so far removed from her studio apartment with its leaky faucet and neighbors who played music until three in the morning that she might as well have been transported to another planet.
She began stripping off her clothes with methodical precision.
The hoodie came off first, revealing the sports bra underneath that had supported her through hours of training and one brutal fight.
Her boots followed, kicked off with relief as her feet finally escaped the confines of worn leather.
The jeans were last, peeled away from skin that bore the marks of a life lived on the edge—small scars on her thighs from a childhood fall and a faded bruise on her hip from sparring with Tasha two weeks ago.