Page 2 of Room 1017

“Hi, Ben. I’m sorry to be calling so late, but it’s a bit of an emergency.” Before he was done with the explanation, Ben interrupted to say he was on his way. No anger at being woken up, no questions asked. Ben didn’t work as an electrician anymore, since he primarily spent his time as a stay-at-home dad, but he had experience with the hotel’s persnickety elevator and knew just what tools to bring.

With Ben on his way, Emerson hurried over to break up the argument that had arisen between the two guests, their volume increasing as they got more worked up. Peter was back in his wheelchair for now, Conner hovering nearby, looking helpless.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Mr. Brown was shouting. “The guy said they can move us down to the second floor. It’s one flight of stairs. I can manage one flight of fucking stairs!”

Most people would’ve found the alpha intimidating, but not this woman. She didn’t even blink as he lost his composure. Ms. Abadi might’ve been on the more delicate side physically, but there was something about her that spoke of her strength. And she was clearly used to handling his temper. She narrowed those black eyes of hers, leaned close, and in an even voice said, “You are being a stubborn ass. I have no doubt that you could manage the stairs, but you would absolutely hurt yourself in the process. Now is not the time to play hero. Youwillaccept help. Do you hear me?” Her level voice somehow made it sound like a threat.

The man seemed to collapse in on himself as her words registered, and that fiery temper was extinguished with a sigh. “Okay, Amy. Sure.” It was hard to watch this large man clearly struggling with his loss of independence. His chin dipped to his chest, but not before Emerson swore he saw Peter’s eyes shine with frustrated tears.

Emerson cleared his throat. “Good news!” he said, forcing himself to sound upbeat. “I have an electrician on his way. Hopefully the elevator will be back in working order shortly. Perhaps I could offer you a complimentary meal in our restaurant while you wait.”

Peter snorted a laugh, devoid of humor. “Sure, thanks. It might just be my last meal.”

Amy slapped his shoulder. “It’s routine surgery. You’ll be fine.” She moved around behind his wheelchair and grabbed the handles, pushing him down the hall toward the restaurant. “Thank you,” she said to Emerson, then to Peter, “Come on, let’s go eat a nice meal before it’s time for you to start fasting.”

Emerson blew out a breath in relief, then closed his eyes and hoped like hell that he hadn’t been lying about the elevator being fixed soon.

In under ten minutes, Ben was there, his large form taking up more space in the lobby than seemed possible. His wide smile emerged from the middle of his dark beard, now streaked with silver. “Great to see you, Em. It’s been too long,” he said, slapping Emerson on the shoulder and nearly knocking him back a step. He was a large bear of a man, well over six feet, with wide shoulders, barrel chest, and a thick pelt of hair coating his exposed forearms where he’d rolled up his sleeves, ready to get to work.

In under an hour, the elevator was back up and running, and the two guests, now full and slightly less grouchy, were tucked upstairs in their upgraded suite.

Emerson held out a hand to Ben and watched as it was swallowed in the electrician’s much larger grip. “Thank you, Ben. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“Never a problem.” He grinned as he passed over an invoice, and Emerson cringed.

Yep, he’d had his fair share ofthosedays, but why did they always have to cost him so much money?

It was easy to let these setbacks get the best of him, but he tried to look at the bright side. It was a beautiful evening as Gerald, the night doorman, held the door open and Emerson stepped onto the sidewalk out front. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp spring air.

Yes, spring. It was the time for fresh starts. Clean slates. Maybe even an upgraded elevator. And for the guest upstairs, it apparently meant surgery. Emerson hoped it meant a positive change for him too.

1

Peter

Beep.Beep.Beep.

The sound was more familiar than it had any right to be. Groggy and floating, the fog pulled at me as I swam for the surface. Little by little, I returned to my body to find my limbs too heavy, the thin, scratchy sheet tucked too tight around me. I blinked a few times, the bright light blinding, before finally giving up and closing my eyes again. I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry, the sides of my throat rasping together like sandpaper. I opened my mouth to say something and failed, my tongue seemingly thick and furry. I tried a second time and managed to get a few words out, but mere seconds later, I’d already lost track of what they were.

I heard someone moving nearby and cracked one eye open to see an unfamiliar nurse appear above me, his smile wide, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. His pink scrubs had rainbows and kittens on them. Was I in the pediatric ward? “Welcome back, Mr. Brown. My name is Cesar. How are you feeling?”

I grunted. It was easier than trying to speak. My mouth and throat were sticky and dry, and tasted like old shoes.

The nurse’s smile widened, unfazed by my groggy attitude. “Your surgery lasted just under two hours, but Doctor Kwan said there were no complications. He’ll come see you himself a little later and go over some information with you. We’re going to get you moved out of recovery in just a few minutes, okay? Just hang tight, and you’ll be sucking on a popsicle in no time.”

Fuck. I hated waking up from surgery. But I would still eat the fucking popsicle.

This was my fourth surgery—or was it fifth?—over the past year. It wasn’t like the number was too high to keep track of, but after the second one, everything kinda started to blur together. The first surgery had been about stopping blood loss first and foremost, and I had no memory of that one at all. I’d been mostly dead, after all. Waking up in a hospital had been a shock, and a painful one at that. I remembered praying for death that first week, the pain nearly blinding when they didn’t have me heavily sedated.

I used to be an FBI agent. Technically, I still was, though I was on extended medical leave, obviously. My partner, Amy Abadi, and I had been posing as a married couple, hiding out in some cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood to protect a witness. We just needed to keep him safe and hidden until the case against the mob boss, Bruno “The Butcher” Santana, could go to court. We’d known it would be dangerous, and we’d been careful. But sometimes, all it took was one small mistake to throw the whole plan in the shitter. In this case, it was a matter of trusting the wrong person, a mole in the agency.

We’d had almost no warning, just a frantic phone call cut short, but it had been enough—kinda, sorta. Our witness survived, at least, which was all that mattered in the end. Amy had suffered a concussion. And me? I had barely had enough time to pull my gun before the guy came out of nowhere and stabbed me.

It was easiest to think about clinically. First, the knife had gone in my back, nicking my bowel. The second stab had punctured my kidney. The third and fourth were all nerve damage. The result? Acute blood loss and subsequent transfusion. Partial nephrectomy to remove the damaged part of my kidney. Bowel resection to remove a section of my intestines, which included an ostomy. And now, after blood tests and scopes and a hefty dose of laxatives to clear the pipes, the final surgery to have the ostomy reversed.

This was it. I was officially patched up and ready to go. And I’d done it all without my family’s support.

I’d known I wanted to apply to the FBI even before I’d finished my undergrad in criminology. It had sounded exciting and diverse, lots of travel, and I loved the idea of helping to put away criminals. My mom, however, had disagreed. After she found out I’d applied and been accepted, she’d told me that if I went through with it, I should leave and never come back.

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