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“Wait here.” Leo killed the engine.

He returned minutes later with an actual metal key, then drove them to the far end of the lot, parking the van where it would attract minimal attention.

The room was sparse—two double beds with faded floral spreads, a small bathroom, institutional carpet worn thinbetween beds and door. The air smelled faintly of lemony disinfectant.

“Home sweet home.” Kat dropped onto the edge of the nearest bed.

Leo set the first aid kit from the van on one of the bedside tables. “You should clean up first.”

The bathroom was barely large enough to turn around in, with tiles that had seen better decades and a water-stained ceiling. But when she turned the shower dial, hot water sputtered, then flowed steadily.

She stripped off her ruined clothes, letting them fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.In the mirror, a stranger stared back—blackened hair, bruised jaw, eyes too large in a pale face.

She tore her gaze off the mirror and stepped into the shower. Steaming water washed away the grime and for five minutes, she wasn’t a fugitive or a disgraced agent. Just a woman under hot water.

When she emerged wrapped in one of the thin white towels, she almost felt like herself again. She found Leo sitting on the edge of the bed, his gun within easy reach on the nightstand. Their eyes met briefly before he looked away, a muscle working in his jaw.

“Your turn,” she said, adjusting her grip on the towel that was suddenly too flimsy. “I left you some hot water.”

When the bathroom door closed behind him, Kat dug through the duffel bag Brock had packed, finding a clean T-shirt and utilitarian supermarket underwear. She pulled them on, relishing the simple comfort of clean fabric against sore skin.

The first aid kit lay open. She sat cross-legged beside it, examining the contents. Antiseptic, gauze pads, butterfly bandages, medical tape. Brock was thorough.

Water pipes groaned and clanked as the shower shut off. Minutes later, Leo emerged in clean clothes, his hair dampand darkened. Without the blood and dirt of their escape, the injuries on his face stood out more starkly—a gash above his eyebrow that probably needed stitches, a bruise graying near his temple.

“Sit,” she patted the space beside her. “That cut needs attention.”

He hesitated for a heartbeat before complying, the mattress sinking under his weight. Kat leaned closer, her fingers brushing his skin as she examined the wound. Heat radiated from him—his proximity sending a flutter through her stomach despite their circumstances.

“This might sting,” she warned, applying antiseptic with a cotton pad.

Leo remained perfectly still as the antiseptic touched raw flesh. His eyes, however, never left her face. The intensity of his gaze raised goosebumps along her arms.

“You’re staring,” she said, focusing on cleaning the cut.

“Hard not to.”

Her hands faltered. “I should make some joke about you having a head injury.” She reached for a butterfly bandage.

“But you won’t.”

“No.” She applied the bandage with gentle pressure, smoothing it carefully in place. “I won’t.”

When she finished, her hands lingered of their own accord, one resting lightly against the line of his jaw, unshaven against her palm.

“Kat—”

Her name on his lips made her throat constrict.

“Leonid.”

He set aside the first aid supplies. When he looked up, his eyes held the same conflict she felt—duty warring with desire, caution warring with need. “What are we doing?”

“Running for our lives. Trying to stop a global mind control conspiracy.” The attempt at humor was undermined by the tremor in her voice.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.” She looked down at her hands. Silence stretched between them, filled with all they’d never said.