C h r i s t i e

The storm had faded to a misty drizzle, soft enough that it felt like breath on the skin. The motel parking lot was quiet—just a few cars huddled under flickering lights, their metal shells streaked with rain.

Jacques shrugged off his jacket and slung it around my shoulders without a word. It was still warm from his body and smelled faintly like leather, motor oil, and something uniquely him.

"We need to find a place to lay low for a couple of months," he said, scanning the lot as he approached one of the cars.

I watched him drum his fingers along the hood—light, rhythmic, almost thoughtful. Then he leaned over and peered into the driver's side window like he was checking in on an old friend.

"This should do," he said casually.

I pulled his jacket tighter around me. "Do for what?"

He turned and flashed me one of those easy, cocky smiles—the kind that made it hard to remember I should probably be questioning him more than I was. "We need a car. Winter isn't bike weather. Not for you, anyway. Can't have you riding around in that dress. You'll freeze to death before we even reach the mountains."

He gave the hood two satisfied pats. "This'll do nicely."

I narrowed my eyes as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a knife—small, sharp, and entirely too familiar in his hand. "Jacques... are you about to steal that car?"

"Borrowing, darling," he said smoothly, crouching beside the door. "We can ditch it later."

I shifted uncomfortably, glancing back toward the glowing motel office. This felt... wrong. Not the neon-wedding-with-a-side-of-Elvis kind of wrong. Actual wrong.

I crossed my arms. "Jacques, this doesn't feel right."

He glanced up, and for a moment the playfulness in his expression vanished. "Baby, we're on the run. Nico's probably already been dispatched. You know how fast he moves. We need to ditch the bike before it gets us tracked. We disappear into the mountains, vanish for a while. This is how we stay free."

And then, like he'd done it a hundred times before, he slid the knife into the keyhole, jimmied it once, twice, and click—the lock popped. Effortless.

He stood, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door for me like a gentleman—if gentlemen used lockpicks and highway logic.

I hesitated.

"Look," he said, voice soft but serious. "If we stay here, Nico catches us. You get dragged back to Rudolph. And you know exactly what happens then."

I sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. But I climbed in.

Jacques shut the door behind me and slid into the driver's seat. He worked the blade into the ignition, snapped the casing, and the engine sputtered to life. Elvis exploded from the speakers mid-riff—"Can't help falling in love..."

Jacques winced and immediately slapped the volume knob. "I think we've had enough of the King for one night."

The car was... not great. The upholstery was peeling, the heater coughed like it had pneumonia, and the air had the suspicious tang of old fries and forgotten gym socks. I picked up a food wrapper and frowned. The expiry date was five years ago.

And then I looked down.

At my feet—amidst the crushed soda cans, loose ketchup packets, and an alarming number of paper straws—was a glossy, smudged pile of magazines.

Lurid ones.

Titles like Big Busty Babes, Tangled & Tantalized, and the deeply scarring Pensioners Do the Wildest Things were stacked in a half-melted puddle of spilled cola.

"What are you staring at?" Jacques asked, flicking a glance between me and the road.

I gingerly lifted one of the magazines between two fingers, holding it like a radioactive insect. "Something really gross."

It featured a wrinkled woman in orthopedic shoes grinning at the camera while enthusiastically flashing her bra.

Jacques glanced down, did a double take, and made a strangled noise. "Oh hell no."

He crossed himself dramatically, muttering under his breath. "In the name of everything holy, throw it out the window."

"What if a kid finds it?" I asked, still holding it like it might disintegrate.

"Then may the gods help them," Jacques said. "But it won't be in here."

I rolled down the window and lobbed the magazine into the night like it was cursed. The rest of the pile, I kicked beneath the seat with my foot.

Jacques exhaled in exaggerated relief. "Thank you. I think I nearly went blind."

"Remind me never to ask where you learned to hot wire cars," I muttered, curling deeper into his jacket.

He smirked. "Remind me to show you sometime."

Of course he would say that.

"So..." I shifted in my seat, watching the endless stretch of road dissolve into fog and farmland. "Where exactly are we going?"

Jacques drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. He shot me a sideways grin that made my stomach flip in a way I wasn't prepared to handle.

"I have this theory about fate and the fuel gauge," he said.

"Oh no," I muttered, already regretting asking.

"Wherever this car runs out of gas," he said with a dramatic flourish, "that's where we're meant to stay."

I gave him a slow blink. "You've got to be kidding."

"Nope. Fate has a funny sense of humour."

I folded my arms. "I don't want to criticize your plan, but... there are only human towns this way."

"Exactly," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I stared at him.

Humans.

The word alone made something uneasy coil in my stomach.

I'd never met one—not really. I'd lived in the capital my whole life, surrounded by elegance, tradition, and blood delivered in crystal goblets. I'd drunk human blood, sure, but only after it had been filtered, chilled, and poured like wine. Like it was separate from the people it came from. Like they were separate.

I didn't know what they looked like up close. I didn't know how they spoke, or smelled, or moved through the world. I didn't know how to pretend to be like them—how to hide the parts of myself that weren't normal.

The thought of stepping into a human town felt like walking into a dream I didn't understand. A dream where I might say the wrong thing. Or stare too long. Or slip up and eat one.

How was I supposed to live among them, pretending I wasn't something... other? Something that didn't belong?

"We're going to live with humans?" I asked slowly.

"Yup."

"Jacques, we have no money."

"Funny thing," he said, leaning back like this was a beach cruise instead of a criminal escape. "Before we left, the King's wallet just happened to be lying on the sideboard. Practically fell into my pocket. And it was loaded. Couple thousand, easy."

My eyes widened. "Jacques, you stole from the King?"

"Stole is such a strong word." He gave me a shrug and a smirk. "I'm his best friend. This is more like... a temporary royal loan."

I dropped my head into my hands. "You're unbelievable."

He grinned, pleased with himself.

I sighed. "I'm sorry. For everything. For... being such trouble."

His smile faded.

"What are you talking about?" he said, frowning. He leaned back slightly, angling himself to see me better. "Christie."

I didn't answer. My throat tightened like someone had wrapped invisible hands around it. The words were there—but saying them out loud would make them real. Would make me real. And I didn't want him to see that version of me. The one who broke things just by being in them.

Jacques tilted his head, eyes searching mine. "Christie," he said again, quieter now. "What are you sorry about?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then he reached across the seat, his hand brushing down my neck—slow, careful, like he was learning me by feel.

It was so gentle, I froze.

His fingertips skimmed across my collarbone, then retreated as he leaned a little closer. His voice lowered, warm and steady. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

"I've ruined everything," I whispered. "Your life, your title, your future—"

"Hey." He cut me off, not harsh but firm. "Don't talk like that."

I stared at my hands, twisting my fingers in my lap. "You don't get it. I'm not worth this. Not all of this. You're risking everything for someone who isn't even—" My voice cracked. "Who's not worth it."

He went still.

And then, "You're my wife." His voice was almost reverent. "That's it. That's the whole story. You don't need to earn that. You are that."

"Jacques..."

"Together forever," he said simply.

Together forever.

It felt too good to be true.

Too solid. Too kind. Too... safe.

Nothing good ever lasted for me—not without a catch. Not without someone changing their mind, or walking away, or deciding I wasn't worth it after all.

My chest tightened.

My hands started to shake, just slightly at first—tremors that felt like they were coming from the inside out. I curled my fingers into fists, but that only made them feel clammy, my palms slick with sweat. The heat beneath Jacques' jacket suddenly felt suffocating.

I tried to breathe, but my lungs didn't seem to work properly. Each breath came shallow, too fast, like I couldn't pull in enough air. My throat clenched, panic rising like a tide I couldn't stop.

No, no, not now—

My eyes widened. The edges of the car blurred. The dashboard lights looked too bright. The sound of the engine, the rain against the windshield, even Jacques's quiet breathing—it was all too much, like the world had turned up its volume and I couldn't turn it down.

I pressed my back into the seat, gripping the fabric beneath my fingertips like I could anchor myself to the real world. But everything felt like it was slipping—I felt like I was slipping.

The word forever kept echoing in my head.

Not because I didn't want it.

But because some part of me still didn't believe I deserved it.

I opened my mouth, trying to say something, anything, but no words came out. Just a shallow gasp.

Jacques noticed immediately. "Christie?" His voice was low, alert now. He shifted, turning toward me. "Hey. Look at me."

I couldn't.

Because if I did, I'd fall apart.