"Everlee—may I kiss you?" Canon mouthed, and the question landed like an order wrapped in velvet. She didn't answer with words. Her fingers curled into the silk of the sheet instead. He closed the space between them with one slow move, pressed his mouth to hers, and the world tightened to the press of his hand at her back. "You're trembling," he mouthed. His lips shaped the words so clearly she could read them without glancing away. "Cold," she whispered, and the sound came small. Her throat felt raw. Her vision stuttered with memory. She pushed herself up a fraction and found the hotel suite's morning light cutting across Canon's jaw. "Don't move," he mouthed again, fingers landing flat against her ribs like a shield. Footsteps threaded outside the bedroom door. Not the polite click of a maid. Heavy. Deliberate. "Someone's at the door," Everlee said aloud, because the motion in the corridor sharpened her panic. Canon's hand were already moving. He didn't need to speak. He tucked something into Everlee's palm under his chest—a cool, heavy disc of metal. She barely felt it before he slid out of bed and padded to the door, footsteps silent, precise. "Stay," he mouthed. "Who is it?" Everlee asked. Her voice didn't want to play nice. Her eyes tracked him reading the lock through the crack. He pressed his ear to the door even though he couldn't hear. His face