Chapter 15 Exhaustion pulls at my eyelids. We've been driving for four hours straight, switching between back roads and interstate, constantly checking mirrors for signs of pursuit. My hands ache from gripping the steering wheel, and my neck feels like it's been twisted into knots. Beside me, Dante drifts in and out of consciousness, his breathing shallow and labored. The makeshift bandage I tore from my slip and pressed against the bullet graze on his left side is soaked through again, dark red seeping through the white silk. Every time I glance over, my heart clenches with fresh worry. "We need to stop," I finally say, though the words feel like admitting defeat. "You need medical attention." "Keep driving," he mumbles without opening his eyes. "Just a little further." But I can see the pale sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way he grunts with each breath. He's losing too much blood, and I'm too exhausted to drive safely much longer. The neon sign appears like a beacon in the darkness. "Sunrise Motel-Hourly & Weekly Rates-Cable TV." It's the kind of place that asks no questions and keeps no records, perfect for people who need to disappear. The parking lot is mostly empty except for a few beat-up cars and a semi-truck with out-of-state plates. I pull into a spot as far from the road as possible, hidden behind the truck. "Wait here," I tell Dante, though he's barely conscious anyway. The night clerk is exactly what I expected-middle-aged and bored. He's got the pale, doughy look of someone who's spent too many nights under fluorescent lights, and he barely glances up from his magazine when I approach. "Room for the night," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. He starts to reach for a registration form, then actually looks at me for the first time. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in my appearance-torn dress, blood on my hands and wild hair. Something predatory flickers across his face. "Well now," he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. "Rough night, sweetheart? You look like you could use some...assistance." The way he says it makes my skin crawl, his gaze sliding down my body with obvious appreciation for my disheveled state. After everything that's happened, I don't have time for his bullshit. "Just a room," I repeat firmly. "Sure, sure." His smile reveals teeth stained yellow from cigarettes and coffee. "But maybe you'd like some company? I get lonely during these long shifts, and a pretty little thing like you⁠-" "Listen," I interrupt, my voice shaking slightly before I force it steady, "I need a fucking room. You need...you need money. That's all this is. Are we clear?" His smile falters at the bite in my voice, but he recovers quickly with a sneer. "Feisty. I like that. But honey, looking like you do-all beat up and desperate-you're not exactly in a position to be picky about⁠-" "Room. Now." I slam two hundred dollars on the counter, enough to shut him up and make him forget any inconvenient details. "The one furthest from the office." He stares at the money for a moment, then at my face, clearly recognizing something in my expression that makes him think twice about pushing further. With a muttered curse that sounds like "rich bitch," he slides a key across the counter. No ID required for the room at the far end, away from the office. The key is attached to a plastic tag shaped like a palm tree, ironic given the industrial wasteland surrounding us. "Room twelve," he grumbles, already turning back to his magazine. "Ice machine's broken, vending machine takes exact change only." I pocket the key without another word, relief making my knees weak. Dante needs medical attention, and every second we spend exposed increases our risk of being found. Getting Dante from the car to the room is harder than I anticipated. He's deadweight against my shoulder, his feet dragging as I half-carry him across the cracked asphalt. By the time I get the door open, my own legs are shaking from exhaustion. The motel room smells of cheap bleach and cigarettes, with an underlying staleness that speaks of thousands of temporary occupants. Yellow water stains mar the ceiling like abstract art, and the neon sign outside casts intermittent red shadows through thin curtains that have seen better decades. The carpet is worn thin in a path from door to bathroom, and the bedspread looks like it hasn't been changed since the eighties. But it's the first time we've stopped running in hours, and my legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand. The adrenaline that kept me going through the auction, the escape, the chase-it's all finally wearing off, leaving me hollow and trembling. "Sit," Dante orders, though his voice is weak as he drops our meager supplies on the scratched dresser. We managed to grab a first aid kit from Vincent's car, along with some water and energy bars. Not much, but better than nothing. "You first," I counter, eyeing the blood-soaked silk pressed against his side. "That needs proper cleaning." "Sofia-" He starts, but I can see the exhaustion in every line of his body. "Don't argue with me." My voice cracks on the last word, all my fear and frustration finally spilling over. "Please. I need...I need to do something useful." Understanding softens his expression. He's seen this before, I realize-the need to help, to fix, to do something concrete when everything else feels out of control. He sits on the bed's edge, carefully shrugging off what's left of his ruined jacket. The shirt beneath is stiff with dried blood, both his and probably some from the guards we fought. My hands only shake a little as I help him unbutton it, revealing each inch of exposed skin. The bullet graze along his ribs is angry and inflamed, but it's the other injuries that make me suck in a sharp breath. New bruises bloom across his chest and back-purple and black marks from being slammed into walls, from diving behind cover, from taking hits meant for me. Old scars tell stories I've never heard-a puckered mark near his shoulder that looks like a knife wound, a long, thin line across his abdomen that speaks of surgery or violence or both. When the shirt falls away completely, I have to bite my lip to stay focused on the medical necessities and not on the way the motel's dim lighting plays across the planes of his chest, highlighting every ridge of muscle. "Not as bad as it looks," he says softly, noticing my reaction. "Liar." But I'm grateful for his attempt at comfort as I wet a washcloth in the tiny bathroom sink. The water runs rusty for a moment before clearing, and I make a mental note to stick to bottled water for drinking. I clean the wound as gently as possible, but his muscles still tense under my fingers with each pass of the cloth. I tell myself it's from pain, not from my touch. Not from the way my breath hitches every time he shifts, every time his skin warms under my fingertips. "You did good tonight," he says quietly. "Better than good. You were magnificent." I pause my cleaning, looking up to meet his eyes. "I was terrified." "Brave people usually are. It's what you do with the fear that matters." His hand covers mine briefly. "Your brother would be proud." The mention of Marco makes my chest tight. "Will we ever see them again? Marco, my parents?" "Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice, no doubt. "This isn't permanent, Sofia. We're not running away-we're going dark long enough to plan our counterattack." I finish bandaging him with supplies from the first aid kit, the medical tape stark white against his olive skin. My movements are careful, but I'm acutely aware of every place our skin touches, every breath that lifts his chest. "Your turn," he says when I finish. Before I can protest, his hands are gently examining the cut on my temple, the bruises on my arms from being grabbed and dragged. "I'm fine," I try to say, but the words stick in my throat as his fingers trail down my neck, checking for injury with the thoroughness of someone who's seen too many hidden wounds. "You're in shock," he corrects, his touch clinical but somehow intimate. "And you have glass in your hair." His fingers work carefully through the strands, removing tiny shards from the explosion at the auction house. Each gentle tug sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the temperature in the room. I want to make a joke about impromptu haircuts, but suddenly all I can see is Maisie crumpling to the ground. All I can hear is that final gunshot, the sound that ended a life and changed everything. "Hey." Dante's hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears. "Stay with me, principessa." The old nickname hits differently now. Not patronizing or diminutive, but tender. Protective. "She died helping us." The words tumble out like a confession. "If I hadn't encouraged her to fight back⁠-" "Then Viktor would have killed her anyway, but without giving the others a chance to escape." His voice is firm but gentle, cutting through my spiral of guilt. "She chose to be brave. She chose to stand up. Like you taught her to be." "She was supposed to go home to her family," I whisper. "She was supposed to dance again, to live, to⁠-" A sob catches in my throat, and Dante pulls me against his chest without hesitation. I finally let myself break, let myself feel everything I've been holding back since the auction. The grief for Maisie, the terror of almost losing Dante, the rage at Viktor and everyone who thinks they can buy and sell human lives. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, solid and real and alive. His hands stroke my back in slow, soothing circles while I cry for my friend, for the innocence we've all lost, for the girl I was before tonight. I don't know how long we stay like this. Long enough for my tears to dry and for the trembling in my hands to stop. Long enough for me to become acutely aware of everywhere we're touching-his bare chest against my cheek, his arms wrapped around me, the warmth of his skin seeping through my torn dress. "Sofia." My name is rough in his throat as I shift slightly, and I feel rather than see his body's response to our proximity. Warning or plea, I'm not sure. I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, my hands still pressed against his chest. His pupils are dilated, and there's something raw and hungry in his expression that makes my breath catch. "We shouldn't," he starts, but there's no conviction in it. His hands flex on my waist, holding me close even as his words push me away. "Why not?" I'm still straddling his lap from when he pulled me close, and the position suddenly feels charged with possibility. "Because of Marco? Because I'm too young? Because you think I don't know what I want?" "Because you've been through hell tonight," he says hoarsely. "Because you're in shock, because⁠-" "Because you're scared," I finish for him. "Scared of what this...what this means. How you feel about"-I swallow hard-"about me." His eyes flash dangerously. "Sofia⁠-" "I'm not a child anymore, Dante." I roll my hips deliberately, feeling him harden beneath me, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. "I know exactly what I'm doing." "We could die tomorrow," he says desperately. "Viktor could find us, could⁠-" "Then don't you think we should live tonight?" His control snaps. His kiss steals the rest of my protests, fierce and desperate and everything I've been dreaming about for years. It's not gentle or careful-his mouth claims mine like a man starving, and I meet him with equal hunger. My fingers tangle in his dark hair, pulling him closer as his hands slide up my back, pressing me against him until there's no space left between us. When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for him eagerly, and the groan that rumbles from his chest sends heat spiraling through me. When we break for air, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are dark with want and something deeper, something that looks like reverence and terror all at once. "We should stop." "Should we?" I shift against him deliberately, feeling the hard evidence of his desire beneath me, and his grip on my waist tightens almost painfully. "Or should we stop pretending this isn't what we both want?" He searches my face for any sign of hesitation, any indication that I'm not sure. But I've never been more certain of anything in my life. I kiss him again, softer this time, tasting the corner of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. "Sofia," he breathes my name like a prayer, and then he's kissing me, slow and intense. His hands map my body with reverent touches-tracing the curve of my waist, the line of my spine, the sensitive skin at the base of my throat that makes me gasp and arch against him. When he flips us over in one smooth motion, laying me back on the bed with careful strength, I feel beautiful despite the cheap motel room, despite my torn dress and tangled hair. The way he looks at me-like I'm precious, like I'm everything he's ever wanted-makes my heart race for entirely different reasons than fear. His mouth trails down my throat, finding that spot where my pulse beats wild and frantic. When he nips gently at the sensitive skin, I can't hold back the soft moan that escapes me. His answering growl vibrates against my collarbone as his hands work at the zipper of my ruined dress. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with want. "So perfect. I've wanted this-wanted you-for so long." My response is lost as his lips find the hollow of my throat, as his hands skimming along skin he's baring inch by agonizing inch. Every touch sets me on fire, every kiss makes me ache for more. But just as his mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, just as his hand slides up my bare ribs to cup my breast through the satin of my bra, my phone buzzes against the nightstand. The harsh electronic sound cuts through the moment like a knife. Marco's name flashes on the screen. Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. Dante helps me steady my shaking hands enough to answer, his own breathing ragged as he pulls back. "Sofia? Thank god." Marco's voice is frantic, tight with worry that makes my chest ache. "Are you okay? We lost contact after Vincent dropped you off." "I'm okay," I assure him quickly, trying to keep my voice steady despite everything. "We're both okay. Mostly." "Listen to me carefully," Marco's tone sharpens to the authority voice that means immediate danger. "They're tracking our phones. All of them. The traitor has access to our entire communication network. You need to ditch your phones and go completely dark. Now." Dante's already moving, grabbing our phones and heading for the bathroom. Through the thin walls, I can hear engines revving in the parking lot. Multiple vehicles, moving with purpose. "How long have they been-" I start to ask, but Marco cuts me off. "Probably since the beginning. Every call, every text, every location ping." His tone is grim with implications I don't want to think about. "Burn your phones. Destroy them completely. I'll find another way to contact you." "Marco-" "No time. Get out. Now. And Sofia?" His voice softens for just a moment. "I love you. Stay alive." The call cuts off as flashlight beams sweep past our window, casting moving shadows across the stained wallpaper. Dante's hand finds mine in the darkness, steady and sure. "Ready to run again?" I squeeze once, trying to memorize the taste of his kiss, the weight of his hands, everything we almost had. Everything we might still have if we survive this. "Let's do this," I whisper. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...