Page 53 of In the Dark of the Past

“Define okay,” I said as I looked into his eyes.

He laughed, the sound short and ragged, then, because the world wasn’t absurd enough, he pulled me in by the back of my neck and kissed me.

It was hungry. Wet. Desperate.

Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and blood streaked his cheek, but his mouth was hot and angry against mine, years of pain and guilt and want pouring into the space between us.

I kissed him back like I was drowning and he was air.

My hands fisted in his shirt, the cold fabric sliding under my fingers. His grip tightened as he pulled me closer, heat and strength and stubbornness pressing against me in the middle of a storm that felt like the end of the world.

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. And still⁠—

I didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

When we finally broke apart, our foreheads pressed together, both of us panting, he whispered against my lips, “I don’t think I can let you go again.”

Something inside me flipped, making me feel like I was on an amusement ride. “We have a whole helluva lot to talk about, Finn, but I think I’m done running.”

His eyes burned, even in the dark, the look in them fierce, wild, and alive. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Backup. Finally.

But for one last heartbeat, it was just us and the storm and the realization that whatever came next⁠—

We were in it together.

Even if the Watchers were still out there.

Maybe especially then.

Chapter Nineteen

Finn

By the time the sirens found us, the worst of the storm had blown east, leaving the woods dripping and mean.

The knife guy lay on his stomach in the mud where we’d left him, hands zip-tied behind him with department-issue flex cuffs. He’d regained consciousness and tried to roll onto his side twice—once to puke, and once to see if we were still around, I think. Both times, I’d put a boot between his shoulder blades and reminded him that stabbing cops in the woods was a bad life choice.

My arm burned like someone had poured gasoline along the cut and lit a match. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, which did a real shit job of washing the blood away. River’s tee was tied around my forearm in a makeshift tourniquet-bandage hybrid that likely would’ve given Myra hives, but it had slowed the leak. I’d take it.

River stood two feet to my left, flashlight in one hand, bear spray in the other. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks, and her eyes were fierce and too bright. She kept checking the tree line, her shoulders tense, like she was daring anyone else to come out of those shadows and try something.

I should’ve sent her home.

I hadn’t.

Yet another choice I’d have to live with.

Linton’s voice crackled over the walkie sitting on the pack at my feet. “Sheriff, lights and sirens incoming on County 12. We’re coming in from the opposite side. What’s your twenty?”

My voice came out rough as I said, “We’re at the trail access by marker eighteen. One in custody. Two fled on foot, headed downslope in opposite directions. Call it north-northeast.”

“On our way.”

I exhaled slowly, trying not to notice how lightheaded I was getting. Bad sign. I shifted my weight, but kept my boots planted.

“You’re bleeding through,” River said quietly, nodding at what used to be white cotton.