On the way out the door, Thorn covers my eyes with his hand. I think he’s going to blindfold me again, but as soon as we’re off the porch, he takes the hand away and grabs mine instead, pulling me toward the trees with him. I do my best to keep up with him in my stockinged feet, and hope he’s telling me the truth about it not being far.

I can’t see a thing, but Thorn is sure-footed and swift. He keeps me close to him so all I have to do is follow in his footsteps. Soon, we come to a small clearing. Just as he said, there’s a car here — a mid-sized SUV that’s probably dark blue or black. He hits a button on a key fob and the lights go on, then goes to the back of the car and opens the hatch to throw our bags in. He slams the door and nods for me to get in on the passenger side. I do as he says without question.

I barely have time to buckle my seatbelt before the engine roars to life. Thorn throws the SUV into drive and presses down hard on the accelerator. The action throws me back against the seat. I stifle a yelp and clutch at the armrests as he barrels through the grass, dodging trees and rocks as though he knows the path out like the back of his hand. I try to relax, but the events of the last fifteen minutes have left my nerves raw and on edge. Instead, I concentrate on taking deep, slow breaths and staying quiet. I don’t want to make Thorn’s job worse by freaking out or hyperventilating or something.

A couple minutes later, we drive down into a ditch, then back up again, and then suddenly we’re on a paved road. Thorn turns right and floors it. The SUV roars and accelerates rapidly, until we’re going so fast I’m afraid we’ll hit an animal in the dark night. But one look at his focused, determined face, and I start to calm down. Just looking at him — knowing he’s right here beside me — makes me feel safe, in spite of everything.

I can’t stop the half-hysterical giggle that bubbles up at the thought. Thorn shoots me a look, one thick brow going up. “This is funny to you, is it?” he growls, but a corner of his mouth twitches in amusement.

“Not exactly,” I murmur, smirking back at him.

“Christ, but you’ve got a twisted sense of humor, girl.” He shakes his head in mock exasperation and turns back to the road.

I sit quietly for a few minutes, letting him drive. “Where are we going?” I finally ask.

“Someplace safe. The safe house is compromised. We can’t risk going back.”

“I heard… a gunshot,” I whisper. The fear threatens to return, but I push it away. “I thought you were dead.”

“Not me,” he says, shooting me a tight grin. “I’m harder to kill than that.”

“Thorn. What happened out there? Who was it?”

In the low light of the dashboard, I see his jaw tense. I’m afraid I’ve asked too much. But then he sighs angrily.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, half to himself. “After this, you deserve to know what’s going on. I’ll tell you, Isabel. But right now, let me focus on driving and thinking about where to take us for the night.”

Thorn tells me to get some rest, so I doze off in the passenger seat. I don’t know how long we drive, or even which direction we go, since I never knew where we were in the first place. It’s still dark when Thorn wakes me up and tells me we’ve arrived. Opening my eyes, I see we’re at a small, dingy-looking motel in the middle of nowhere. Thorn tells me to wait for him in the SUV. He locks it with his key fob and strides toward the motel’s office. I watch him go and try not to count the seconds until he’s back.

When Thorn returns, he unlocks the car again and climbs into the driver’s seat. “We’re at the end, there,” he says, lifting his chin. He pulls the SUV to the edge of the lot and shuts it off again. I open my door and slide down off the seat onto the gravel below. By the time I move around to the back, he’s got my bag as well as his slung over his shoulder. “Come on,” he rumbles.

Thorn walks me to the door of our room and sticks the key into the lock. A stale, musty smell hits me instantly. I wrinkle my nose, but don’t complain. We both have worse things to think about right now than a less-than-excellent place to sleep for the night.

When Thorn flips on the light, I take in the smallish, dingy room. There’s a rickety table with two chairs by the door, and one double bed with a quilted cover. I risk a quick glance at Thorn, but he’s already setting our bags on the table and pulling off his leather cut. He runs a hand over his face, raking it through his hair. I look over at the digital alarm clock by the bed and see it’s after two in the morning. For the first time I realize how tired he must be.

“Go ahead and use the bathroom first,” he tells me.

I don’t argue. I pad across the dirty-looking carpet and push open the door at the back of the room. The switch by the door fills the tiny space with cold fluorescent light. I blink against it, turning my face away from the fixture, and shut the door. I do my business, then run some warm water and quickly wash my face, drying it with a small but thankfully clean-looking towel.

When I get back outside, Thorn is sitting at the table in the single chair.

“It’s late,” he grunts at me. “Get some sleep. I’ll stay up and stand watch just in case.”

“But Thorn,” I begin. “You’ve had even less sleep than I have.” I blink a couple of times and frown. “I could take a shift, and wake you up if…”

“No. Sleep.”

“But…”

“Woman, do as I say!” It’s a command that brooks no argument.

Anger flares in me. I open my mouth to shoot him an indignant retort. But then I notice again how tired his face looks, and realize I’d just be making things worse for him. I can complain about his neanderthal behavior later, when he’s had some rest.

“Okay,” I say meekly. “But remember you still owe me an explanation of what the hell’s going on.”

“Tomorrow,” he barks. “Right now, go to sleep.”

I move over to the bed and pull the cover to the side. The sheets look clean, but I’m not convinced they are, given the state of this room. I decide I’m tired enough to just sleep in what I’m wearing. I lie down on the bed, fatigue already overtaking me, and close my eyes.

“Thank you, Thorn,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond.