Chapter 7: Static and Steel

The radio’s voice hung in the shack like smoke, low and warped—“Bring the vial. Cliff road, now—or he pays.” Sienna’s gut twisted, the vial a cold weight in her hand, her breath catching on the static’s last hiss. Roman stood stiff by the door, gun up, his eyes boring into hers—dark, steady, asking questions she didn’t have answers for. The twig snap outside hit like a slap, sharp and close, and her pulse kicked hard.

“Who’s ‘he’?” she said again, voice low, rough, barely holding steady. She stepped toward Roman, the floor creaking under her boots, the air thick with damp and him—too close, too real.

“Dunno,” he said, sharp and quiet, his head tilting toward the door. “But they’re here. Move back.” He shifted, putting himself between her and whatever was out there, his shoulder brushing hers—quick, firm, enough to spark a dumb flicker she shoved down fast.

“No chance,” she snapped, pocketing the vial and grabbing a rusted poker from the stove. It was heavy, cold, better than nothing. “I’m not hiding while some creep plays games.” Her eyes flicked to his, challenging, and damn if he didn’t hold it—too long, too steady, like he saw right through her.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice gritty, a ghost of something—worry, maybe—slipping through.

“Stay close.” He cracked the door, peering out, the drizzle outside a soft hiss against the shack’s warped boards. She pressed in behind him, her chest brushing his back, and cursed the way it felt—his heat seeping through wet fabric, solid and alive, tugging at her when she needed to focus.

The woods were dark, shadows shifting in the rain, and her grip tightened on the poker. “Cliff road’s west,” she said, voice low, nodding toward a faint trail snaking through the trees. “They want me there, they’re waiting.”

“Then we don’t go,” Roman said, turning his head just enough, his jaw brushing her hair. His breath hit her cheek, warm and rough, and her stomach flipped—stupid, reckless heat she didn’t have time for. “Trap’s too obvious.”

She pulled back, glaring up at him, the space between them buzzing. “And sitting here’s better? They’ve got someone—‘he pays’ isn’t a bluff.” Her mind raced—Vivienne? Some random caught in this mess? Or worse, someone she didn’t even know she cared about yet?

He didn’t budge, eyes narrowing, rain streaking his face. “You run out there, they’ve got you too. We play this smart—find out who’s pulling strings.” His voice dropped, low and hard, and damn if it didn’t pull at her—his steadiness, his heat, like he’d hold the line no matter what.

“Smart’s gotten us squat,” she shot back, stepping past him, her shoulder clipping his arm. “I’m done waiting.” She pushed out into the wet, the poker raised, her boots sinking in mud as she scanned the dark. Roman swore under his breath, following fast, his shadow falling over hers.

The trail was a slog, slick and narrow, branches clawing at her jacket. Every snap in the woods made her jump, every shadow a threat, but Roman stayed tight behind—too tight, his steps matching hers, his breath a steady rhythm she couldn’t ignore. She hated how it grounded her, how his closeness made her skin itch with something she wouldn’t name.

“Slow down,” he said, voice low, his hand brushing her elbow—not grabbing, just there, warm through the damp. “You’re charging blind.”

She spun on him, poker up, rain dripping off her nose. “And you’re what—my babysitter? Back off, Roman. I’m not your—” She stopped, the word problem dying on her tongue, because his eyes hit hers—dark, raw, cutting through the wet—and her chest tightened, a dumb ache flaring she didn’t want.

“Not backing off,” he said, stepping in, close enough she could feel his heat, smell the rain on him—leather, earth, him. “Not when they’re this close.” His voice was rough, low, and his hand hovered near her face—like he might touch her, wipe the water off her cheek—and her breath hitched, caught on the what-if of it.

Before she could snap back, a hum broke the quiet—low, mechanical, growing fast. Headlights flared through the trees, blinding, and Roman yanked her down into the brush, his arm hooking her waist, pulling her tight against him. Her face smashed into his chest, his heart thudding under her cheek, and damn if it didn’t burn—his grip, his smell, the way he held her like she mattered.

The truck rolled past, slow and heavy, tires crunching mud, and she peeked through the leaves—two shapes in the cab, one broad, one lean, faces shadowed. The radio crackled again, strapped to the dash, that same warped voice spitting out: “She’s near. Find her—or he’s meat.”

Roman’s arm tightened, his breath hot on her ear.

“They’re hunting,” he whispered, voice a growl, and she felt it—his tension, his heat, coiling into her. She should’ve pulled away, but she didn’t, her hand curling into his coat, holding on.

The truck stopped, doors creaking open, and boots hit the ground—two pairs, heavy, deliberate. A flashlight beam swept the trail, inches from their spot, and Sienna’s heart slammed, the vial burning a hole in her pocket. Then a scream—sharp, male, ragged—cut through the rain, echoing from the cliff road ahead.