The motel room stank of stale smoke and Rafe’s cheap cologne. I’d scrubbed the sink twice already, just to have something to do with my hands. The mirror above it was cracked—one long jagged line splitting my reflection in two. Fitting.
Kat was close. I could feel her. Like a splinter under the skin, always there, always aching. She thought she could run. Thought she could hide behind patched-up bikers and their clubhouse fairy tale. But she belonged to me. She always had.
Rafe sat on the edge of the bed, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other, tapping ash into a Styrofoam cup like he was bored of breathing. He hadn’t said much since his last guy checked in. I could tell he was losing patience. Good. Let him squirm. He wasn’t in this for Kat—he was in it for the payout. But me? I was
