Their Mountain Captive by Kayla Wren

9

Dante

Amotel. A motel. Charged by the hour. My soul withers inside me as I push through our door. Roxy limps in next, supported by Alec, and I try not to dwell on the way she keeps choosing him. Leaning against him naturally, like it’s as easy as breathing.

I should let him go too. Send him with her before I run.

There’s still time for me to do it. To be a better man.

For now, though, there is this: the ultimate karmic punishment. Polystyrene bedspreads and a balding green carpet, dotted with cigarette burns. I wrinkle my nose at the dusty television set and stiff, heavy curtains, crossing to yank them closed with my uninjured arm.

The room dims. Closes in and turns impossibly gloomier.

“Well,” Roxy chirps. “This is… nice.”

“You didn’t stay here before?” I murmur as Alec flicks on the light. It’s weak, barely casting a glow over the carpet. No surprise. “Before your egg mayo bus ride?”

She raises her chin and doesn’t deign to answer. Instead, she limps further into the room, nodding at the one single bed pushed against the faded wall.

“Dibs.”

Alec and I both turn to the double. It juts out from the wall, taking up most of the floor.

“I don’t…” he begins, but I talk over him.

“Perfect. Alec and I can spoon.”

His cheekbones flush. It’s nothing. Nothing. But Roxy slides me a sly smile, flopping onto her bed in a chorus of bedsprings, and I suddenly wish I’d kept quiet. I’m not used to this—having someone else around us. Someone who can read me; who notices the way my eyes linger on the other man.

I’ve fallen out of practice. If I’d let this slip around my family…

It’s unthinkable. My skin goes clammy at the idea.

Alec gives me thirty minutes. Enough time to duck inside our bathroom, lock the door, and bite the hand towel as I peel my shirtsleeve off my wound. The pain sears my arm, makes my breath come faster, and when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, the tendons stand out harsh on my neck.

I drop the shirt on the tiles. Run the faucet with shaking hands, splashing cold water on my face, the back of my neck, my chest. Rivulets run over the dark hairs on my chest, on the tattoos inked into my olive skin.

Finally, dripping, I turn to the side. Hold my breath and splash water over my wound.

“Motherf—”

A knock rattles the bathroom door.

“Have you started without me? Dante, you asshole. Let me in.”

It’s fine. He can come in now—the worst is over. Hidden away. So I spin the lock, flashing a grin as Alec squeezes into the tiny bathroom with me.

“Did it stick?”

I nod at the pile of bloody, dried shirt. “Not for long.”

He levels me a look. “Bet that hurt.”

No point pretending otherwise. “Like a bitch.”

I wait for the lecture. For him to say he could have helped; that it might have hurt less with two.

Alec wedges himself between me and the sink. He runs fresh water, his forehead creased in the mirror.

“The kit was in my bag. We’re making do.”

“It was the bags or Roxy,” I say, even though he didn’t ask.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Green eyes meet mine in the glass. “It’s just stuff. It doesn’t matter. Besides—” he turns without warning, and I jerk back but there’s nowhere to go. Alec’s chest brushes mine, shirt to bare skin, and can he feel my heart pounding through the fabric? “You’re the one with the bullet wound.”

“Just a graze.” I twist and show him the outside of my bicep. The shot gouged out a track through my flesh, but that’s all.

We got lucky. Or Angelo’s going soft.

“I’ll clean it.” He peers closer, his face coming nearer to mine. “Water first, then the vodka from the mini bar. Roxy called the front desk asking for a needle and thread.”

Shit. “And a lighter,” I rasp.

This motel is so foul, I wish we could burn the whole building down first. Disinfect everything.

Alec nods. “And a lighter.”

His touch is gentle but firm. Distant—like a doctor with a patient. It’s worse, somehow, than him never touching me at all. A taunt. I stare up at the ceiling, at the blotchy pattern of water marks, as Alec methodically washes my wound.

“First Roxy’s ankle, now you.”

I hum. Nudge him with my boot. “Last man standing.”

“Let’s hope not.” The pink-tinged water gurgles down the drain. We’re done, no reason to linger, and yet neither of us moves. I watch the pulse thrumming in Alec’s throat, too afraid to look away in case it slows.

“You don’t need to be here, you know.” Here, with me. I can’t look at him when I say this. “You could stay with Roxy. She won’t report you.”

“I know.” That’s all he says. And it’s so loaded, so unclear, that I could slam my head against the wall. In this stupid motel, it’d crumple like damp cardboard.

“This is where you say thank you,” Alec says quietly.

My eyes slam shut. “Fuck you.”

“Half right.” Amusement curls through his voice, and strong fingers wrap around my wrist. My heart stops. “You were almost there, Dante. So close.”

Cool air washes over my bare chest as Alec steps back into the bedroom, leaving me slumped against the counter.

So close?

He has no idea.