“I’ll turn up the heat,” he says, without a trace of reluctance in his voice, his blanket already tossed aside.

“Not like that,” I say, and my heart pounds in my ears.

“What?”

“Not like that,” I repeat. “Ben, please just hold me.” My voice is strong at first but barely audible as I finish.

“Tave, I … I shouldn’t. You don’t—” Something oddly sob-like cuts his voice off and then before I know what’s happening, the blankets are flung back from the empty side of the bed and Benson’s arms are pulling me almost savagely to him—he groans as his arms crush me against his ribs.

“Careful!” I warn. “I’m hurting you.”

“I don’t care,” he gasps, his lips brushing against my neck, his fingers buried in my soft, clean hair. “I want you so badly I don’t even care.” He brings me hard against him, his fingers digging into my back in a pain that feels like pleasure, and I understand him better now.

And then his lips are on mine, part savage, part flower-petal soft, and I grasp at his shirt, pulling him to me. My legs tangle with his, our hips meeting, melding, as his fingers skim the skin between my pants and T-shirt.

Every nerve in my body is on fire, singing angelic refrains that echo in my head, blocking out all words, all doubts, all fears. I kiss him with abandon, not caring that I hardly know what I’m doing. It doesn’t matter; with Benson everything is right. I don’t stop until we’re both gasping for air. His hands sweep my short hair off my forehead before pulling my face against the warmth of the skin just above the neck of his shirt, tucking my head beneath his chin.

There are no more words as we lie there together, our hearts beating fast at first but slowing to thump almost in tandem. I release my breath in a long sigh, and my whole body relaxes for the first time in what feels like weeks. I want to stay awake, to savor the feeling of lying in Benson’s arms without the frantic desperation that has accompanied most of our interactions that even hint at romance. But my consciousness floats away all too soon, and when I open my eyes again, it’s morning.

CHAPTER THIRTY

He’s beautiful in the morning sunlight.

Beautiful seems like a funny word to use for a guy, but it’s fitting. The line of light shining in from the window makes the tips of his eyelashes glow, and despite the purple bruise beneath his eye, he looks boyish without his glasses.

He wakes up slowly and smiles when he realizes I’m watching him. “I was a little afraid it was a dream,” he says, his voice gravelly.

We must have both been totally exhausted, because it’s almost eleven by the time we wake up. I’d like to linger—even spend the day shut up together with one shower and one bed—but the fact that we’ve managed to evade my tails for a full twelve hours makes both of us anxious to get back on the road and stay one step ahead of them.

Especially since we’re going back to Camden today.

I shoulder my backpack while Benson grabs the journals, but as we leave the room, Benson veers right instead of left, heading away from the hotel we actually checked into last night. Where Reese’s car is still parked.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To get us a car,” he says, that same grim look on his face he was wearing after he got jumped. Like something bad just happened and something worse is coming.

I don’t understand why he seems so reluctant until he looks both ways and leans down next to a dark green Honda, fiddling with the lock. “Are you stealing this car?” I ask, horrified.

He pauses, then looks up at me. “I would do a lot of illegal things to keep you safe, Tave,” he says with an intensity that makes my toes warm. “Just be glad this one doesn’t actually hurt anyone.”

I try to pretend I’m not aiding and abetting a crime—another crime—as I slip into the passenger seat. Benson hesitates, then turns the car and drives around the building toward the Holiday Inn. “I just want to see.”

It’s impossible to miss.

Four cop cars and a fire truck are parked around our former hotel room, their lights flashing. My eyes immediately go to the black smoke wisping off the charred hunk of metal that used to be the BMW. A fire fighter is dousing it with a weak stream of water, and it takes me a second to realize the car is upside down.

I tear my gaze away and turn in my seat to look at the hotel room we almost slept in. The door is lying on the sidewalk in several pieces, and shattered glass from the large front window blankets the ground. The curtains hang torn on the other side of the empty window frame, and I can just make out the mattress leaned against the wall and the TV stand tipped over.

“Don’t look anymore,” Benson says, and I turn my eyes forward.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say, not the least bit ashamed of the quaver in my voice. I reach for his hand, loosening my grip when I remember it’s his injured one. He gives me a pained smile in response.

“So where are we going?” he asks as we approach the highway.

“The house was just outside of Camden,” I say after a hard swallow. “Head that way.”

I know what Quinn is now—he’s not like the people hunting me: the Reduciata or Sunglasses Guy or Reese and Jay, whoever they are—he’s like me. He’s an Earthbound.

He’s also a ghost who can’t hurt me. But he can do something. Since I first saw him, he’s had some kind of control over me, over my emotions. I wouldn’t say that he can make me do things, exactly, but it’s mortifying to think about the way I sneaked away from Benson and followed him into the woods.