Page 102 of My Unhinged Alphas
“Yes.”
I stare out the windshield. “That is deeply upsetting.”
“I know.”
By the time we pull into a motel parking lot, my pulse has finally started to come down, which is almost worse. Now I can feel every scrape, every ache, every horrible detail trying to settle into place.
The motel looks like a place people go to disappear.
A flickering VACANCY sign buzzes above the office. The building is two stories of peeling paint and stained railings, with doors that all face the parking lot and curtains pulled tight behind greasy windows. One of the lights over the office door blinks like it’s struggling for the will to live.
I look at Knox. “No.”
He kills the engine. “Yes.”
“I’m not staying at a murder motel.”
“It’s not a murder motel.”
I look at the sign again. “That is exactly what a murder motel looks like.”
“It’s temporary.”
“No.”
He turns in his seat and gives me a look. “You’re staying.”
“I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
He leans back, studying me with that same maddening calm. “Safer here.”
“For who?”
“For you,” he says. Then, after half a beat, “And anyone else you’d be near.”
That shuts me up.
Because I know exactly what he means. Mara. Jess. My roommates. Random customers at the café. Anybody standing too close to me if those men decide I’m worth following again.
I hate that he’s right.
“I really don’t like you,” I mutter.
“I know.”
I stare at him. “You are exhausting.”
“So are you. Get out.”
I want to argue more. I really do. But the adrenaline is fading into something shaky and ugly, and the idea of being alone right now suddenly feels worse than this awful motel and the heavily armed menace sitting beside me.
So I get out.
The office smells like old air freshener, dust, and stale cigarettes somebody definitely smoked indoors despite the giant NO SMOKING sign taped to the counter. Behind it sits a man in a yellowing undershirt, watching a tiny television with the volume way too high.
