Page 79 of Auctioned Innocence
Relief floods through me so intensely I nearly swerve off the road.
They made it.
Most of them made it.
Jessica’s young face flashes in my mind, her tears during the auction.
Ava’s fierce resolve.
Even broken Natalie, who deserves a chance to heal.
Kira is still missing, but she’s smart, resourceful.
If anyone can survive on their own, it’s the diplomat’s daughter.
“Good news?” Dante asks, noting my expression.
“The best,” I tell him.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I actually mean it. “Now let’s go get the bastards who tried to destroy us.”
The highway looms ahead, empty and full of possibility. Behind us, our old lives burn in the rearview mirror.
15
SOFIA
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.
