73. Sanctuary

CHAPTER 73

Sanctuary

ILEANA

Wren’s car cuts through the darkness, headlights illuminating the empty road. My head rests against the window, the faint vibration from the engine almost hypnotic, lulling me into a weird limbo between waking and sleeping. It isn’t just the last three days of running. It’s the release of everything I’ve been holding onto, the constant awareness, the vigilance, the need to survive. Now that I’m not alone, now that I don’t have to be everything all at once, it feels like my body is collapsing under its own relief.

“When did you last eat?” Wren's voice reaches through the fog in my head.

The question hangs in the air, taking a second to sink into my mind. I turn my head to look at him. He’s focused on the road, his hands steady on the wheel. I force my mouth to work.

"The church had soup." The words feel like too much effort.

He nods, doesn’t push for more. I lean back into the seat, the warmth of the car slowly easing the tension that’s kept me upright for so long. My eyes close, but my mind refuses to stop. The memories are still there, dragging me back to alleys that smelled of urine, vending machines that swallowed crumpled bills, my heart pounding at unknown sounds.

Wren’s hand settles against my leg, and that simple touch unravels me more. I drift in and out of consciousness, catching fragmented sights. An abandoned factory, rows of shadowed warehouses, the clatter of a distant train, background noise against the single thought that I can finally stop running.

The car slows, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and my body jerks, instinct pulling me upright. A motel sign flickers above, neon letters buzzing faintly. Wren parks the car, and reaches for the door.

“Wait.” The word bursts out. My fingers grip the hem of his shirt. “Where are you going?”

He pauses, one hand on the door handle, gaze finding mine. “To get a room. Stay here.”

I force myself to release his shirt, my throat closing up. He gives me one last look, then steps out. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone.

I sit up straighter, my eyes locking onto his figure as he crosses the lot toward the motel office. There’s something about the way he carries himself, like he owns every space he walks into. When he goes inside and out of view, I press my palm against the cool glass of the window, my gaze never leaving the door.

Seconds feel like hours. I count to five, then ten. I tell myself he’ll come back, but my rapidly beating heart doesn’t listen.

When the door opens again, relief crashes over me, leaving me lightheaded. He steps out, head tilting briefly as though he’s checking the area, before heading back to the car. His presence fills the space again when he opens the passenger door, the faint scent of his cologne bringing reassurance with it.

“We have a room on the second floor.”

He helps me out, his arm winding around my waist, and keeping me steady when my legs threaten to give out. The stairs are an impossible challenge, every step a test of whether my body will keep moving. I lean against him, letting him take most of my weight.

The room is plain but clean. A bed with a neatly tucked blanket. A small table with two chairs. A bathroom with a pale yellow light spilling out from the open door. It’s nothing special, but it’s enough to make my knees weaken. I stand just inside the doorway, taking it all in, the normalcy almost foreign after days of survival .

“Shower first.” Wren’s hand presses against my back, guiding me toward the bathroom.

He stops in the center of the small room, unzipping my hoodie.

"Let me help."

He kneels to untie my laces, and I close my eyes. I can’t look at him. I don’t know how to process this. This version of Wren who doesn’t push, doesn’t taunt, doesn’t find ways to get under my skin. His hands move without hesitation, and he doesn’t speak again. By the time he straightens, I’m standing barefoot, my jeans discarded on the floor, my body feeling lighter with every layer removed.

“I’m going to get food while you shower.”

My eyes open, panic rising. “No!” The single word carries all the fear I’ve been trying to bury. My hand flies out, grabbing his arm. “Don’t leave me.”

His gaze snaps to mine. A muscle ticks in his jaw while he stares at me. The arm I’m not hanging onto moves, his hand reaching for his pocket. He pulls out a small cell phone and holds it out.

“My number is already programmed into it. If you need me, call.” His voice softens, but his tone stays firm. “I’ll be back before you’re done. There’s a take-out place just down the road.”

I take the phone. “Promise?”

His hand moves to my face, cupping my jaw and tilting my head up. His thumb sweeps over my lips. “Always.”

The door clicks shut behind him. I stare at the phone in my hand, my fingers shaking as I trace its edges.

He’ll come back. I have to believe that.

The shower is scalding at first, but I let it burn, the heat sinking into my muscles, loosening the tension that’s held me captive for days. The water runs pink as it washes over me, taking with it the dirt and grime of three days on the run. My body feels unfamiliar by the time I step out, clean and warm, a towel wrapped securely around me .

When I open the bathroom door, the scent of food fills the room. My stomach flips in response, a reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anything with any real substance. Wren is sitting at the table, two takeout bags open in front of him. His eyes find mine, and something moves in his expression. Satisfaction, or maybe relief.

“I brought some clothes for you.” he nods toward the bed, where a bag sits. “Just stuff I grabbed on my way out the door.”

I go over to the bed, and pull the bag open. Sweatpants, a soft black T-shirt, and a hoodie. The faint scent of him clings to it all, and I resist the urge to bury my nose into it.

“Come and eat.”

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.