Page 38 of You Can Run

Jessica's pulse was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. Every part of her was pulling toward him. It was like gravity, like a feeling they'd been falling toward this moment since he'd walked into her bedroom and said her name.

She didn't tell him to stop.

Her hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck and pulled him down. For a moment he gave in completely, his mouth on hers, deeper, slower, his hand tightening on her bare hip like he was holding on to something he'd been reaching for in the dark for years.

Then he stopped.

Really stopped.

His forehead dropped to hers, his breath hot against her skin, and she felt the war in him, felt it in the tremor of his hand, inthe rigid stillness of his body, in the way he was holding himself above her like the distance was the last thing keeping him intact.

“Not like this,” he said, barely audible.

Jessica's eyes opened, searching his face. “Why?”

“Because if it's tonight, it's because we're running. Because we're scared. Because we're in a motel room with nowhere else to go and it's the only thing that makes the rest of it bearable.” His thumb moved once against her hip, a small, involuntary stroke that contradicted everything he was saying. “And I'm not going to be something you regret when this is over.”

The words landed somewhere deep, in a place she hadn't expected him to reach.

“Dante—”

He pulled back. The space between them rushed in, cold and immediate and wrong.

He rolled onto his back, dragging a hand over his face. She watched his chest rise and fall, watched him fight to get his breathing under control.

“Get some sleep, Jess,” he said, quieter now. “We leave in a few hours.”

She didn't turn away. She stayed on her side, facing him, watching the outline of his profile in the dark.

After a while, his hand found hers between them. He didn't lace their fingers together or pull her closer. He just held on, loosely, like it was the one thing he'd allow himself.

Jessica closed her eyes.

She didn't sleep. And from the way his thumb moved absently against her knuckle in the dark, slow and steady and unconscious, neither did he.

FIFTEEN

Santiago was up before Julian,as he usually was. The coffee machine was on, the kitchen dark, the window showing nothing but white gravel and the slow bleed of light along the horizon.

His tension hadn't eased since Dante left.

He stood at the window, tracking the stillness outside—the empty driveway, the fence line, the absence of the stray dog that usually nosed through the yard at this hour.

“You didn't come back to bed,” Julian said behind him.

Santiago didn't turn. “Couldn't sleep.”

Julian stepped closer, his hand brushing Santiago's lower back. It was a quiet, grounding gesture that usually worked.

“Because of your brother?”

Santiago exhaled. “Because of what followed him here.”

Julian stilled. “You think someone did?”

“I think things like this don't just stop,” Santiago said. “Not for people like him.”

Julian glanced toward the front door. “We didn't see anyone. No cars, no?—”