Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
“You know,” I say, staring out the window as the road starts to climb into the mountains, “I didn’t realize I’d be running for my life on a Tuesday. I thought maybe I’d have lunch. Read some code. Curse semicolons. Normal things.”
His hands tighten on the wheel, just for a second. “We’re not running.”
“Oh? So what would you call this detour into No Signal National Park?”
“Securing distance. Establishing control. Minimizing variables.”
“That’s adorable. You sound like one of my old algorithms.”
He glances at me, that half-smirk sneaking onto his face again. “Do your algorithms flirt back?”
“No, but they also don’t come in six-foot-four packages with arms the size of pythons and a jawline that could cut glass, so…”
His ears go pink.
Success.
We drive higher. Pine trees swallow the horizon. The road narrows to a twisty snake of asphalt. I catch myself watching his profile more than the view. There’s something steady about Crewe Hawthorne—like the world can tilt, but he won’t.
When we finally pull up to the safe house, I blink.
“Wow,” I mutter. “This is very… snow lodge meets panic bunker.”
The safehouse is like a storybook: a dark A-frame tucked into trees. Crewe parks under the eaves, kills the engine, and turns to me.
“Rule one,” he says. “You don’t open the door unless I’m at it first.”
“Okay.”
“Rule two. If I say get down, you get down.”
“Okay.”
“Rule three,” he adds, and the corner of his mouth tilts up. “You get the bed.”
“Chivalry lives,” I murmur. “Where will you sleep?”
He looks at me for a long beat, heat and humor and something else threading through the air. “Light sleeper,” he says. “Couch.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him I can take the couch and he can take the bed and also maybe my mouth if he’s bored. I say none of that. I say, “Okay,” because it’s. Not. The time.
“Good insulation. No neighbors. Secure perimeter. One entrance, two exits. It was swept this morning.”
“Swept?”
“Cleared and stocked it. Checked the cameras. You’re not the first person we’ve had to protect out here.”
“Do you always talk like that?” I ask after, needing levity like oxygen. “All command voice and quiet murder?”
He blinks. “Is that a complaint?”
“Depends,” I say, daring to grin. “On whether the murder is for me or about me.”
“For you,” he says, no pause. “Always.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I try not to ask questions I don’t want the answers to.
Inside, the place is warm and sparse. Functional furniture. Rugged charm. A fireplace in the corner that looks like it hasn’t been used in a decade. I drop my bag inside the door and toe off my sneakers.
And there it is.
The bed. Then my eyes sweep the room and see the couch. It’s tiny. Like I couldn’t even fit on this thing. How is Crewe going to sleep there?
Crewe notices too. His brow pulls into a small frown.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say immediately. I squint at said couch. It’s a sad little two-cushion thing that might accommodate one of his thighs. But at least I could fit on it. Sort of. “You’ll never fit on that,” I say.
“I’ve fit on worse.”
“Oh yeah? Where does that land on the Crewe Hawthorne scale of suffering? Below land mines but above paper cuts?”
He gives me a look—dry, deadpan, vaguely amused. “Somewhere between duct tape beds and snow bivvies.”
I fold my arms. “Seriously. I’ll take the couch. I’m five-foot-two. You’re a transformer.”
“No. You get the bed. Non-negotiable.”
“Why are you like this?”
“Because I’m supposed to keep you alive, not well-rested.”
I huff and drop my bag by the bed.
While I unpack, he moves to the kitchen and checks the fridge. I glance up just in time to see his expression twist in confusion.
He holds up one of at least seven packages of cheddar cheese.
“Okay,” he says slowly, “you really hate cheddar cheese?”
I blink. “Yes.”
“Well, the safe house is stocked full of it.”
“Whoever did it is clearly a monster.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You feel strongly about this.”
“As I should. Cheddar is the root of all evil. The villain in the cheese world. It’s chalky. It’s smug. It tries to ruin perfectly good sandwiches with its weird orange attitude.”
“…orange attitude?”
“You heard me.”
Crewe shakes his head, and—gasp—smiles. Not a half-smirk. Not a grunt of approval. A real, actual, full-on smile.
And it takes my breath away.
“Noted,” he says, placing the offending cheese back in the fridge like it personally insulted him.
But the moment fades, because underneath all this—under the banter and the ridiculous cheese discourse—I’m still scared.
I sit on the edge of the bed and exhale. “Crewe… what if this really is about me? What if someone out there wants me gone? Not the drone. Me.”
He’s in front of me before I finish the sentence.
Kneeling.
I blink, surprised by the closeness. He’s solid and quiet and calm. Everything I’m not right now.