Chapter 14
Nadia
The first half hour passes uneventfully, but that doesn’t ease the tension. They’re out there. Hunting us. And I fucking hate it, because I’m rarely on the receiving end. My nerves are strung out. It doesn’t help that my wolf is restless. Pacing beneath my skin.
The heat cycle hasn’t faded; if anything, being confined in this small space with him is making it worse. It makes even my teeth ache with want. My senses filled with him. I force myself to breathe through my mouth. It doesn’t help.
“How close?” I ask for the third time.
“Four buildings down. Maybe five.”
I stand and move to the window on the opposite side, careful to stay out of sight.
From this angle, I can see part of the main street.
One SUV is still visible, parked outside the general store.
An agent stands beside it, arms crossed, scanning the area.
Professional. Patient. Exactly what I’d expect from Syndicate operatives.
“They won’t find anything,” I say. More to myself than him. “We didn’t sign the register. Paid cash. There’s no trail.”
“Unless someone saw us this morning. Or they picked up the wire transfer.”
True. The diner. Walking down the street. We were visible, and small towns remember strangers.
I turn away from the window and nearly collide with him. He’s moved closer without me hearing, standing just behind me.
We both freeze. I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
He steps back immediately, putting space between us. “Sorry.”
I nod. Can’t speak. Because for half a second, my head was flooded with images. Sensations. Sounds.
Stop.
I move back to the bed and sit down. He returns to his window. The distance between us feels inadequate. The room is too small. The air too thick. Every second that passes makes my wolf more insistent.
Want him.
No.
Time crawls, minutes feeling like hours. I track sounds from outside—cars passing, voices in the distance, the wind picking up. And underneath it all: footsteps. Getting closer.
“They’re three buildings away,” Jericho says. His voice is calm, but I hear the tension underneath. “Moving faster now.”
He moves from the window and sits in the single chair by the small table, giving me space, even though there’s barely any to give in this cramped room.
The silence stretches.
Not comfortable. Not hostile. Just loaded.
“Nadia.”
His voice makes me look up.
He’s watching me again. That same unreadable expression. “If they get here, I could shift. Fly us out again.”
I shake my head. “And risk exposing your dragon to a town full of humans?”
“Right. Bad idea.” He rubs a hand over his eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen him show any sign of indecision since I dragged him out of the convoy.
“You okay?” I ask, surprising myself.
He frowns at me for a moment. “I…” His frown deepens. “I’ve never had to worry about anyone else before.”
I blink. “You’re worried about me?”
He shrugs.
“I can take care of myself, Jericho.”
“Of course you can.” He turns to look back out of the window.
More silence. The fact that he’s worried about me unsettles me. A lot.
Outside, I hear vehicle doors. Agents regrouping. Coordinating. Getting closer.
“They’re close now,” he says quietly.
My wolf growls. Fight or flight instinct kicking in. But we can’t do either. Can’t fight twelve operatives. Can’t run without being seen. Can’t shift into our beasts. Can only sit here and hope they don’t find us.
More minutes pass. Each one feels longer than the last.
Jericho stays by the window, watching their progress. “Just left the place next door,” he says.
Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
My pulse kicks faster. I stand and move to the bathroom. Splash cold water on my face. Stare at my reflection.
My pupils are dilated. Lips slightly parted. Breathing too fast. Arousal written across my face despite the fact that we’re about to be discovered by operatives who will kill us.
Inappropriate doesn’t begin to cover it.
I return to the main room.
“They’re down the hall,” he says. Low. Urgent. “Questioning the occupants.”
I can hear it now. Voices through the thin walls. Questions asked in clipped professional tones. Answers given hesitantly.
Footsteps in the hallway, closer now.
We both freeze.
The footsteps stop. Right outside.
I can hear breathing. At least two people. Maybe three.
“Human,” Jericho mouths. I feel my anxiety subside just a fraction. If they’re not shifter, they won’t have enhanced senses. Won’t pick up our scents or any tiny sounds we make.
He moves. Silent. Positions himself against the wall beside the door. I mirror him on the opposite side. If they come through, we’ll ambush them. It’s not a good plan, but it’s the only option we have.
The door handle rattles. Someone testing it.
Locked.
A low voice, barely audible. “Nothing in the register. Paid cash. Manager says they went out this morning.”
Another voice responds. “Check it.”
Three sharp knocks.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes.
“Room seven. Motel management. Need to verify occupancy for safety inspection.” The lie is obvious. But they’re trying to make us open the door willingly.
We do nothing.
I can hear them conferring again. Deciding whether to force entry or move on. Whether we’re inside or if this room really is empty.
The door handle rattles again. Harder this time.
“I say we kick it in,” one of them says.
My breath catches. The sound is small. Involuntary. Just a tiny gasp of fear or adrenaline or both. But in the silence, it’s loud enough.
Jericho moves on pure instinct. One step and he’s in front of me, his hand coming up to cover my mouth. Not rough. Just firm enough to muffle any sound. His other hand finds my hip, steadying me, keeping me quiet.
We stay like that. Still as statues.
His palm is warm against my lips. His body between me and the door. Both of us perfectly still while whoever is outside decides whether they heard something.
Time stretches. Endless. Unbearable.
His hand stays on my mouth. His thumb rests just below my ear, where my pulse hammers visibly. I’m sure he can feel it racing beneath his touch. Can feel how my breath comes too fast against his palm through flaring nostrils.
The footsteps move. Not away. Just shifting position. Someone walking the perimeter of the building, checking windows, maybe. Looking for evidence of occupancy.
Jericho doesn’t move his hand. I don’t try to pull away.
We stand there in the dimness with his body pressed against mine and his hand covering my mouth and the threat just beyond that door.
His scent surrounds me yet again, heady, intoxicating. Stronger now that he’s this near. His body heat radiates through layers of clothing. The careful way he’s holding me—protective, controlled, trying to keep us both alive—it makes my wolf want to rumble with satisfaction.
More footsteps. Returning to the door.
Another voice. Different from before. “Thermal shows heat signature. Could be occupants.”
My whole body goes tense. They have thermal imaging. They know someone’s inside.
Jericho’s hand tightens slightly on my hip. Warning or reassurance, I’m not sure.
“Could be residual,” the first voice says. “Room was occupied until this morning. Bed would still register.”
“Check it anyway.”
The door handle turns hard. Someone trying to force it.
The lock holds.
“We don’t have authorization for forced entry in a civilian location,” the first voice says. “Local PD would respond. Creates complications.”
“Mark it. We’ll come back with the manager if the primary search comes up empty.”
Footsteps retreat.
We stay frozen. His hand still on my mouth. His body still shielding mine. Both of us barely breathing while we wait to be certain they’re gone.
The footsteps fade down the hallway. I hear the stairwell door open and close.
Silence. Real silence this time. No voices. No footsteps. Just the sound of our breathing.
Jericho’s hand stays on my mouth.
I don’t move.
Neither does he. His palm is warm against my lips. His fingers firm along my jaw. The touch is intimate in ways it shouldn’t be. His thumb strokes once along my pulse point—slow, deliberate, not restraint anymore.
Something else entirely.
My breathing changes against his palm. Faster. Shallower. He feels it. Has to feel it. Has to know what his proximity is doing to me.
His other hand on my hip tightens fractionally. Not painful. Just possessive. Like he’s fighting the urge to pull me closer.
I turn my head slightly. His hand falls away from my mouth, but doesn’t go far, just slides down to rest against my throat, where my pulse races wildly.
We’re face-to-face now. Too near. His eyes are visible even in the dimness—pale gray catching what little light filters through the curtains.
Neither of us speaks.
His hand on my throat. My back against the wall. Our bodies aligned. The heat between us building to something that feels inevitable.
Outside: silence. The Syndicate has moved on. We’re safe.
Inside: something more dangerous than any kill team.
His thumb traces my pulse. Slow. Deliberate. His gaze drops to my mouth. And I can only stare at him while my wolf howls and my body burns, and every rational thought dissolves.
We’re going to—
His hand slides from my throat up to cup my jaw. Gentle. Careful. Giving me time to pull away, to stop this, to remember all the reasons this is wrong.
I don’t pull away.
I want—
Everything. Nothing. Him. This. Something I can’t understand and can’t fight anymore.
The space between us shrinks. Not me moving. Not him moving. Just gravity pulling us together like it’s been doing since the shelter, since the fight, since the first moment I touched him, and something changed.
My hands find his chest. Not pushing away. Just contact. Just feeling his heartbeat beneath my palms.
His other hand leaves my hip to brace against the wall beside my head. Caging me in. Not threatening. Just… there. Solid. Real. Looming over me like a towering wall of masculine energy.
The heat between us builds to unbearable.
His mouth is an inch from mine. Less. So near I can feel the whisper of his breath against my lips.
We’re about to cross a line we can’t uncross.
And neither of us is stopping it.