Page 37 of Savage Thirst

Once inside the small restroom, I lock the door, pull the wallet from under my sweater, and flip it open with quick efficiency. Cards, IDs—nothing I'll touch. Nothing that can trace back. I know better. I left Darius's black diamond card behind for the same reason.

I take only the cash. Two hundred and some change. Enough.

The rest I leave neatly on the edge of the sink. They'll find it.

Then I slip out the side exit without looking back.

CHAPTER NINE

Sage

It takes forever to get anywhere on foot, especially without a phone to guide me through a new place. But I ditched mine weeks ago—too traceable. I learned that the hard way. It's inconvenient, sure, but survivable. Everything in my life seems to fall into that category lately.

At the bus station, I manage to get a ticket for tomorrow morning—the only option in the direction I want to go. Which means I'm stuck in this town for the night. Great.

I find the cheapest motel on the outskirts, one of those places with flickering neon signs and a front office that smells like stale coffee and cigarette ash. Definitely not winning any awards for cleanliness, or charm. But it's far enough from the bar and the guy I just robbed, so it'll do.

For a brief, wicked second, I consider stealing a car. It's the kind of town where people leave their keys in the ignition, bless their trusting little hearts. But I stop myself. There's a big difference between lifting a couple hundred bucks and taking an entire vehicle. I don't need local cops chasing me on top of everything else. Darius's people are enough.

I use some of the cash to grab a few second-hand shirts and pants from a thrift shop, a pack of plain underwear from DollarGeneral, and a few packs of processed food that looks about as appetizing as a pile of wet moss. Maybe less so. Still, calories are calories.

As I make my way back to the industrial edge of town, toward the depressing little motel, I spot a sliver of green breaking through a crack in the pavement—a stubborn patch of weeds and a lone dandelion sprouting through the asphalt. I crouch beside it with a small smile. Life always finds a way.

I hover my hand over the fragile cluster, letting my energy pulse low and steady. Just a little to help it along. The sprouts swell, green and reaching, and the dandelion unfurls slowly, catching the fading rays of the late-afternoon sun.

For a moment, the ache dulls. The fatigue, the chaos—it all quiets.

"Talkin' to flowers there, beautiful?" a voice cuts through the air, sharp and grating, followed by whistles and the kind of laughter that makes my skin crawl.

I turn, slowly and carefully. Four men loiter near the motel's side wall, the kind of clientele that makes sense in a place like this. Bloodshot eyes, twitchy hands, that loose-jawed haze that means drugs or drink—or both.

I say nothing, just straighten and head for the stairs.

"Aww, don't be rude now," one of them calls after me, his tone mock-wounded. I peg him as their sad little alpha—skinny, sun-dried, but cocky with the boost of backup and whatever's frying his system.

I step sideways as he moves to block me.

He steps too. Now he's in my way.

"Yeah," another chimes in, breath sour even from a distance. "We're just bein' friendly. You here alone?"

Because that's a totally normal question to ask a stranger in a parking lot.

"No. My fiancé, a Marine, is back in a few. So maybe keep walking."

They laugh.

"Saw you check in solo," the sidekick sneers. "Don't look like you've got anyone coming."

"Imaginary fiancé," says their leader, grinning. "Hot girls always got one when they're acting stuck up."

I sigh, already done with this game. "You've had your fun. Now get out of my way."

I move to pass.

The leader grabs my arm.

Wrong call.