They rode until the city turned into suburbs, and the suburbs dissolved into the grey, rolling countryside.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a biting wind that cut through Elena's borrowed leather jacket. She was numb. Her arms were locked around Silas's waist so tightly her muscles burned, her cheek pressed against the hard ridge of his spine. She could feel the vibration of the engine in her teeth.
Silas didn't slow down until they found a place that looked forgotten by God and the government.
It was a roadside motel called The Blue Heron, though the neon sign flickered and buzzed, reading only BLUE HE.... The paint was peeling, and the parking lot was empty save for a rusted truck.
Silas killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening.
"Can you walk?" he asked over his shoulder.
Elena nodded against his back, then realized he couldn't see her. "Yes."
She climbed off the bike, her legs trembling. She nearly collapsed, but Silas was there instantly, his hand gripping her elbow to steady her. He looked exhausted. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but it was angry and red, and his skin was pale beneath the stubble.
"Wait here," he instructed.
He walked into the small office. Through the dirty glass, Elena watched him slap a wad of cash on the counter. The clerk, an older man who looked like he'd seen everything and cared about nothing, didn't even ask for ID. He just slid a key across the counter.
Silas came back. "Room 4. Around the back."
He pushed the motorcycle behind a dumpster, covering it with the tarp he'd brought along. Then he grabbed the duffel bag and guided her to the room.
Room 4 smelled of stale smoke and lemon cleaner. It had one window with yellowed curtains, a small bathroom, and a single queen-sized bed with a questionable floral bedspread.
Silas dropped the bag on the floor and locked the door, engaging the chain. He checked the window, peering through the crack in the curtains. Finally, he turned around and leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. He closed his eyes and let out a long, ragged breath.
Elena stood in the middle of the room, shivering. The reality of the last two hours crashed into her. The gunshots. The blood. The man Silas had shot between the eyes.
She looked at Silas. He looked broken.
"You're hurt," she said softly.
Silas opened one eye. "I'm fine. Just... coming down."
"You're not fine." Elena shed the leather jacket. She walked into the bathroom and wet a washcloth. She found a first-aid kit in the duffel bag Silas had packed—he really had prepared for everything.
She walked over to him and knelt on the carpet between his spread legs.
Silas flinched as she reached for his face. His hand shot up, grabbing her wrist. It was a reflex, a violent instinct.
"Don't," he warned, his voice rough.
"Let go, Silas," Elena said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. She looked him dead in the eye. "I'm not going to hurt you."
He held her gaze for a long second, his pupils blowing wide. Then, slowly, he released her wrist.
Elena gently dabbed at the cut on his forehead. He hissed in a breath but didn't pull away. She moved the cloth down to his neck, wiping away dried blood and grime.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
"Elena..."
" take it off. I need to see if you were hit."
Silas stared at her, a strange mix of amusement and exhaustion on his face. He reached down and pulled the black t-shirt over his head.
Elena swallowed hard. The scars she had seen the night before were even more intimidating in the harsh motel light. But there were fresh bruises forming on his ribs where a bullet had impacted his tactical vest before he'd taken it off.
She applied antiseptic to the cut on his head. Her fingers brushed against his temple, lingering in his hair.
"Why didn't you leave me?" Silas asked quietly. He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at her hands. "In the loft. You had a clear path to the window."
"You know why," Elena whispered.
"Tell me." He looked up then, pinning her with that intense grey gaze.
"Because you came back for me at the opera house," she said. "And because... I trust you."
"Don't," he said sharply. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his thumb pressing into her lower lip. "Do not trust me, Elena. I have killed more men than you have friends. I am not the hero of this story."
"I don't need a hero," Elena replied, her voice trembling. She leaned into his touch, shocking them both. "I need you."
The air in the room shifted. It became thick, heavy with unspoken desire. The adrenaline of survival was morphing into something else—a desperate need for connection.
Silas's gaze dropped to her mouth. His hand on her face softened, his thumb tracing the curve of her lip. He looked like he was fighting a war inside his own head.
"You have no idea how dangerous it is for you to look at me like that," he murmured.
"Then stop me," she challenged.
Silas let out a low groan. He surged forward, burying his hand in her hair, pulling her face to his.
This kiss wasn't like the one at the opera house. That had been a performance. This was raw. It tasted of desperation and blood and rain. Silas kissed her like he was drowning and she was oxygen.
Elena made a soft sound in the back of her throat, her hands finding purchase on his bare shoulders, her fingers digging into his muscles. The cold of the room vanished, replaced by a scorching heat.
Silas pushed her backward, pressing her down onto the carpet. He loomed over her, his weight settling between her legs, careful not to crush her but dominating her completely.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, breathing raggedly.
"We can't," he rasped. "Not here. Not now."
"Why?" Elena whispered, her eyes closed, her body humming.
"Because if I start," Silas said, his voice dark and guttural, "I won't be able to stop. And you are exhausted, traumatized, and running on fumes."
He pushed himself off her, standing up abruptly. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing away from her like a caged animal.
"Get in the bed," he commanded, his back to her. "Sleep. I'll take the first watch."
Elena lay on the floor for a moment, dazed, her lips throbbing. She looked at his broad back, seeing the tension in every muscle. He was right. But god, she wished he wasn't.
She climbed into the bed, pulling the thin blanket up. She watched him pull a chair in front of the door and sit down, the gun resting on his knee.
"Silas?"
"Go to sleep, Elena."
"Thank you," she whispered.
He didn't answer. He just stared at the door, waiting for the demons to come knocking.