After retrieving his cell phone from Thorin’s pocket, I used it to call Skyla. Despite Thorin’s demands that she stay in contact, the call went directly to her voicemail. I left her a message telling her what to expect if and when she and the Valkyries returned to the hotel. “Tell Embla to warm up her runes. She’s going to need them if she’s going to clean up that disaster.”
I drove north from Vegas until the car lights in front of me blurred. My eyelids had gained so much weight I could barely hold them open anymore. Just over the Utah border, in the town of St. George, I pulled over at a decent-looking motel and reserved a room.
“Zombie movie extra,” I told the motel clerk as he eyed my bloody clothing.
He shrugged, swiped Thorin’s credit card, and passed me the receipt to sign. He handed me a set of key cards and motioned in our room’s general direction, all without uttering more than four or five words.
“Why are we stopping?” Thorin grumbled when I opened his door to help him out.
“I can’t hold my eyes open anymore. We need sleep and food, and I want to clean you up and make sure the bleeding has stopped.”
“You want to get me out of my clothes?” He grinned.
I slapped his unwounded shoulder. “Blood loss makes you loopy. No more talking until you feel better.”
After opening the door and flicking on a light, I pushed him into the room and shut the door behind us. After turning the deadbolt, I flipped the swing latch into place. Not that it would keep out mythological beasts, but we had seen that even mundane intruders could prove problematic, and an extra lock might buy us some time. Also, habits.
“Get in the shower. I’m going to run out and get some food.” I eyeballed his bloodstained shirt. “I’ll see if I can find you something clean to wear, too.”
Not waiting for his reply, I turned and started for the door. Thorin snagged my wrist and towed me back. “You don’t need to go anywhere looking like you just butchered a deer. I’ve got a bag in the rear of the truck. It has some clean clothes in it. It’ll get us by for now. Why don’t you take a shower first, and I’ll get the clothes?”
“I’m not the one who got shot. Quit being a hero, and go clean up. I’ll go get the bag.”
He nodded and released my wrist. No arguments and following my commands? This compliant side of him worried me even more than all the blood.
“Solina?”
“Yes?” I turned to look at him.
He met my stare and dropped his tough exterior. He let me see his pain and fear and something more... something I refused to name. His openness stole my breath. “I—”
I waved a hand, cutting him off. No matter what he was about to say, it would have been too much. It would have wrecked me, and I wasn’t ready to be undone by him. Not yet. Not in some cheap roadside motel halfway between Vegas and Tahoe. “Whatever it is, it can wait. We’re both worn out. Exhaustion tends to make people maudlin.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Maudlin? You?”
In reply, I rolled my eyes, unlocked the door, and ducked into the night.
When I returned a few minutes later, the hiss of spraying water told me Thorin was in the shower. I set his bag on one bed and stretched out on the other. I meant to watch TV and wait for my turn in the bathroom, but I passed out the moment my head hit the pillow.
A warm hand on my shoulder woke me. “Sunshine. You can’t sleep in bloody clothes.”
I rolled over and rubbed my eyes until my vision cleared. Thorin stood over me, wearing nothing but his jeans, his iron Járngreipr bracelets, his Memegingjörð torc, and a few tantalizing water drops. I turned away as if it would help, as if not looking at him could stop the wanting.
“Okay, yeah, thanks,” I muttered.
I dropped my feet to the floor and trained my eyes on the carpet—utilitarian, boring, safe hotel carpet. I stood and started toward the bathroom. He moved, barring my way. I must have looked like an idiot, standing there, blood crusted and stubbornly staring at the floor.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Waiting for you to look at me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re trying so damned hard not to.”
I did look at him then, irritation diluting my desire. He was perfect, lovely, golden skinned, and unbelievable. No bullet holes, no blood—only a few ancient scars that spoke of another time and another world. He took my hand and set it over his heart, over the place where I had seen a bullet explode from his chest. Warm flesh, the opposite of Amala’s.
“Not even a mark?”
He shook his head. “I’m perfectly whole and still very much alive.”
“One of those men carved something in your chest with a knife. After you’d been shot. Twice.”
He shrugged. “I vaguely remember that.”
“But you don’t know what he was doing?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? My wounds are healed.”
“It’s good to be you, isn’t it?”
He pulled my hand away from his heart and pressed his lips to the heel of my palm. I gasped and tried to wrench myself free, but he wouldn’t allow it. “I’m trying to say, ‘Thank you.’”
“I-I owed you one,” I stuttered. My mouth had gone dry.
“Can’t you just say, ‘you’re welcome’?”
“Would you have been all right if I had left? Would you have recovered on your own anyway?”
