Page 23 of Savage Prince

“No, but if you walk in like you belong there, most people won’t ask questions. That’s how my friends and I snuck into the resorts near Zion’s winter pack lands. Act like you belong, make a beeline straight to the hot tub, and don’t crash the same place too many times in a row.”

“Sounds like fun,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder.

“It was,” I say, torn between loving that she feels so comfortable touching me and wanting to shake her until she remembers that she’s a woman who makes me work for every single scrap of intimacy. “Not all my memories of growing up in Hammer’s pack are bad. There were good times.”

“For me, too?” she asks. “Or was I always the kid he wished had never been born?”

“No, he loved you. I’m betting he still does. In his own fucked-up way.”

“It just isn’t enough,” she whispers. “Love isn’t always enough.”

“No,” I say, my heart twisting in my chest as I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer.

“But it should be,” she says, snuggling closer. She turns her face to my chest and exhales a soft moan that goes straight to the dick I only recently got back under control. “Why do you smell so good? You’re better than fresh baked bread and pickle juice combined.”

My lips curve. “Pickle juice?”

“Pickle juice is delicious, right? My tongue says it is.” She wraps her arm around my waist and relaxes against me. “We should get some when we get to Montreal, and I can do a sniff test to see which is better—Ford smell or pickle juice.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

She’s asleep a few minutes later, but I stay awake, holding her and loving her and wondering if it’s going to be enough to help us both get through.

TWELVE

juliet

We arriveat theGare d’autocars de Montréalstation a little after seven a.m. I’m stiff from sleeping in a weird position all night, but surprisingly rested and filled with hope.

Maybe it’s the fact that we’re well on our way to finding help or how easily we made it to the city or the sunny day waiting for us outside the station, but I feel good about our chances of making things right at Lost Moon.

Ford seems to be in decent spirits as well.

There’s a spring in his step as we cross to the park on the other side of the street to grab coffees from the street vendor with the five-dollar bill I found on the ground near the ladies’ room. So far, the universe seems to be looking out for us, and I’m grateful. I really don’t want to test my alleged pickpocket skills unless I absolutely have to. Getting arrested isn’t something I want to risk when we’re so close to getting help.

Once we’ve secured coffees, we make more peanut butter sandwiches and wander through the tidy streets, taking in the historic churches and lines of Victorian homes not far from the station. There’s a bed-and-breakfast advertising rooms for fifty dollars—a steal, Ford assures me—but we don’t have fifty dollars and a tiny place like that isn’t as easy to sneak into as a larger hotel and probably wouldn’t have a business center anyway.

So, we keep walking, chatting about Lost Moon and everything I’ve forgotten about our time there, until we find a big, swanky hotel with a smartly dressed doorman and several valet staff lingering by the car park station. It’s so early that there aren’t any cars pulling through the drive, but plenty of guests are coming and going, grabbing breakfast from one of the nearby restaurants or heading out for a day of sightseeing. Ford and I wait until a group of college-aged kids with matching “staff” t-shirts and duffels like ours head into the hotel with bags of fast food and blend in with their group.

Once inside, Ford leads the way past the front desk into a large lobby filled with sofas, armchairs, and several small tables tucked against one wall by the bookshelves. It’s overflowing with young rugby players, toting big bags of gear and sucking down protein shakes as they scroll through their phones. The college kids we followed in seem to be counselors, making me think it must be summer training camp time.

Somehow, I know that some serious high school players spend their summers travelling from one collegiate camp to another, honing their skills in hopes of landing a place on a college team.

Maybe I knew someone who played rugby?

I search my mind, all the way to the very back where I sometimes sense pieces of my old life are hiding, cloaked in the shadows, but I get nothing but a soft assurance that my rugby knowledge can be trusted. Shaking off the frustration associated with not knowing if my old memories are gone for good or not, I weave my way around a group of boys laughing together over a video on one’s tablet and follow Ford over to the bookshelves.

We settle into seats at one of the tables at the edge of the space and sip our coffees as Ford discreetly cases the joint.

“Looks like the business center is on the second floor,” he murmurs after a few minutes. “There’s a sign beside the elevator.”

“Okay, so we finish our coffee and head up?” I ask, studying the couple stepping into the elevator on the other side of the lobby. “It doesn’t look like you need a key or anything, right?”

“Not to get on the elevator, anyway,” he agrees. “Maybe to get into the business center, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“It’s going to be open,” I say. “I can feel it. The Fates are on our side.”

His lips hook up. “Such optimism.”

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