The tires screeched slightly as Alexander pulled out into traffic, weaving through the late-afternoon rush like a man possessed.

He kept his jaw tight, and his eyes locked forward with the kind of focus that made his hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary.

The streets of Vegas blurred past him— the glittering signs, some tourists, neon haze—and none of them caught his eyes.

All he could care about right now, was that motel room. Room 17. Silver Pine Inn.

He knew the type of place. It had no cameras, and that meant no safety.

Damn her. He curses inside.

She’d put herself in the worst position possible, thinking she...