Page 94 of Shadow

“Not bad. Needs stitches. I’ll be fine.”

“You better be.”

He smiled despite the pain. “Yes, ma’am.”

She glanced at him. Brief. Assessing. Then back to the road. “We’ll get you patched up. Get everyone safe. Then you’re going to explain what just happened.”

“Yeah. I will.”

He’d rather have the truth between them than maintain the lie.

Even if she hated him for it.

Even if this was the end of whatever had been building between them.

He’d tell her the truth.

And hope she didn’t shoot him for lying.

Nine

This was what happened when you let your guard down. When you trusted. When you fell for the one person you had no business falling for.

Not that she’d categorize her feelings for Asher as…well, falling. As in…love.

But for a hot minute there, one where her guard had been completely obliterated, yes, she’d fallen.

And now they were all paying the price.

Daphne threaded the needle with steady hands while her mind cataloged the damage.

Asher, bleeding in a motel chair. Destiny, trembling on a bed. Roger, pacing behind her, muttering under his breath. Their safe house compromised. Their location blown. Two attackers who’d known exactly where to find them and exactly when to strike.

Professional failure. Complete operational breakdown.

And all because she’d been too busy playing house to notice the real threat circling.

The Timberline Motel sat fifteen miles outside Renegade, tucked between pine trees and a creek that rushed over rocks with a sound that might have been peaceful had not they arrived with one very bloody superhero and a couple of terrified passengers.

Thankfully, it was in the middle of nowhere.

Which could also mean vulnerable.

She never should have worn a dress that had no room for a holster. What had she been thinking?

Stop playing house.

The thought came sharp and clear as she pushed the needle through skin on Asher’s ribs. Not a deep wound, but enough that he needed a few stitches. He tensed. Didn’t make a sound. Just gripped the edge of the chair and breathed through it.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine. Keep going.”

She did. In and out. Pulling the edges of the wound together. The cut across his ribs was shallow but long. Four inches. Bled more than it should have, but nothing vital damaged. The one on his forearm was deeper—the diner stitches had long since dissolved. This was fresh ground. She’d do that next. “You sure we shouldn’t⁠—”

“I’m good. Just…you can glue the one on my arm.”

Right.