Page 143 of In Shadows We Dance

I walk back over to where he’s waiting, and lower myself into the chair. He pushes a takeout container toward me. The first bite sends a flood of warmth through me. The food is simple, but it’s real, and my body responds to it, every bite easing the gnawing ache in my stomach.

“Good. Keep going.”

When I’ve eaten as much as I can, I sit back, cradling the cup of hot chocolate he’s placed in front of me. I savor each sip, the sweet flavour calming the residual panic still lurking at the edges of my mind.

When I set it down, he stands. “Bed.”

I crawl under the sheets, and only then pull the towel away and drop it to the floor. The pillow is soft beneath my head. I should question why I’m not scared about being naked with him in the room, why his presence feels like safety instead of danger.

“Will you stay?”

“I have no plans to go anywhere.”

The bed shifts as he stretches out beside me. His arm drapes over my waist, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns over my stomach. I let my eyes close. The tension that’s held me together for days finally breaks, and I let out a long sigh, pressing back into the warmth of his body.

For the first time in forever, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

CHAPTER 74

Reaching Out

WREN

She falls asleep almost instantly,her body giving in to three days without rest. I keep my arm around her waist while checking messages.

Monty: They're onto us. Those explosions bought you time but they've figured out it was a diversion.

Monty: Feds are PISSED. Sweeping the woods where we set off the fireworks.

Monty: Getting the hell out before they connect us to it. Going dark.

That last one was sent almost an hour ago. I don't reply. I'll reach out once we're in a safer position.

The motel room exists in a separate reality from the federal agents prowling my property. My nerves spark with each breath, danger heightening every sensation. Plans cascade through my mind, each bleaker than the last. The clock ticks forward. This temporary sanctuary can't last. We can't vanish into endless hotels. They’ll find us eventually. She needs leverage. Something to force Miller to retreat, to abandon his mission of dragging her back into witness protection.

My fingers curl into fists. We're running out of options. Running out of time. We need something stronger, something that will stop them in their tracks. The kind of force that Miller will have no choice but to respect. Leverage. Power. What I need—what she needs—lies behind a door I swore I'd never open again.

My father's influence. His power. His connections.

Bile rises in my throat at the thought.

My grandmother would have seen straight through my hesitation. She understood power in a way my father never could—not from boardrooms and bank accounts, but from years of disciplining her body into an instrument of precision. A principal dancer who bent the world to her will through sheer determination.

"Power lives in the control," she'd say, her posture still perfect even in her seventies. "In knowing exactly when to hold firm and when to yield."

I ease away, transferring my weight inch by inch to preserve her peace. She mumbles, fingers seeking the warmth I abandoned. I pause until her breathing deepens again. Even now, my mind catalogs every subtle shift in her breathing, every minute change in her expression. Old habits. Necessary ones.

The lamp casts shadows across the room. Dark hair spills across the pillow, her features softened by sleep. She exists beyond the ordinary world, every worry erased. She chose to lower her defenses beside me, and that knowledge breaks another chain holding me hostage.

My phone is like lead in my palm. The screen illuminates my father's contact information, mocking me. Each number a reminder of every time I deleted it, only to memorize it again. Just in case.Alwaysjust in case.

My thoughts go to the house I left just hours ago. It’s empty without my grandmother's presence. Her laughter used to echo through those rooms, filling the void my parents left. She attended every school event, every award ceremony, while they sent their excuses. She built traditions—Sunday brunches in the garden, evening stories in the library, impromptu dance classes in the ballroom. She taught me to appreciate discipline, dedication. To recognize the strength it takes to make something difficult appear effortless.

But she couldn't teach me how to prepare for losing everythingin an instant. The morning of her stroke, she'd been perfectly fine. Dancing in her studio the way she did every day. By afternoon, everything had changed. I spent the next six months trying to find a way to bring back the woman I remembered—memorizing medical terms, tracking vital signs, researching treatments. As if understanding it all could somehow change the outcome.

Their responses never varied, no matter how critical her condition became.

I have a crucial meeting.

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