Page 34 of Brass
“The bed is huge,” I press on quickly. “We could stay on opposite sides. Like adults.”
His expression shutters, all hard lines and restraint. “Not a good idea.”
“That makes no sense.” Frustration sharpens my tone. “You won’t get any decent rest on the floor, and tomorrow’s going to be hell. You need to be sharp, not half-broken from sleeping on carpet.”
For a moment, his jaw flexes as if weighing the argument. Then his gaze pins me, molten and merciless. “If I get in that bed,” he says, voice dropping low and lethal, “there won’t be much rest for either of us.”
The words detonate in the silence, stealing the air from my lungs. Heat flares hot and dangerous in my chest, curling low in my belly. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t soften. Just lays the truth bare between us, daring me to call it anything but what it is—want, raw and unhidden.
The honesty of his answer steals my breath. There’s no artifice there, no manipulation. Just raw truth—he wants me. Enough that proximity while sleeping seems like a risk neither of us should take.
The knowledge settles in my belly, warm and dangerous.
“Fine,” I concede, moving to the bed. “But the offer stands. This is stupid.”
“Noted.”
I slide between the sheets, the cool cotton a blissful relief against my battered body. The mattress isn’t particularly luxurious, but after everything I’ve endured today, it feels like heaven.
Ryan moves around the room, checking locks, securing the window, establishing sight lines. Always vigilant. Always on guard. I wonder if he ever truly relaxes, if he knows how to exist without scanning for threats.
Finally, he settles onto his makeshift bed on the floor. The room falls into darkness as he switches off the lamp, leaving only the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains.
“Ryan?” My voice sounds small in the darkness.
“Yeah?” His reply comes immediately, alert even on the edge of sleep.
“Thank you. For coming back.” The words cost me something—pride, perhaps. But they need to be said.
A long pause stretches between us. Then, softly, “I’ll always come back, Celeste.”
The promise in his voice wraps around me like a physical thing. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the way my body responds to the sound of my name on his lips. Trying to forget what I heard through the bathroom door. Trying to convince myself that the strange, electric connection between us is nothing more than adrenaline and proximity and the unique circumstances that have thrown us together.
But as sleep claims me, my last coherent thought is of his words to the clerk:one room.
And the undeniable truth that despite everything—the danger, the uncertainty, my fiercely guarded independence—I’m glad he made that choice.
TWELVE
Celeste
The harsh blareof an alarm jolts me awake. Five-thirty. Still dark outside.
For one disorienting moment, I have no idea where I am. Then reality crashes back—the crash, the subway, the men hunting me. Ryan Ellis, currently rising from his makeshift bed on the floor with the lethal, coiled grace of a predator—fluid, controlled, every movement promising violence and sex in equal measure.
My gaze lingers where it shouldn’t—the flex of muscle under his shirt, the ripple of strength in movements meant to be utilitarian, not mesmerizing. He shakes the stiffness from his shoulders like it’s nothing, and I can’t look away, caught between awe and something far more reckless.
“Time to move,” he says, already fully alert while I’m still blinking sleep from my eyes.
I sit up slowly, every muscle protesting. The events of yesterday have settled into my body overnight, leaving me stiff and aching. My ribs throb with each breath. My knee feels marginally better, but not by much.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask, noting the neatly folded blankets of his floor nest.
“Long enough.” He moves to the window, peering through a crack in the curtains. “We need to color your hair, eat something, and be on the road within the hour.”
No “good morning.” No acknowledgment of last night’s strange intimacy as he cut my hair. Just back to business, as if nothing passed between us but professional courtesy.
Fine. Two can play at that game.
