Cora

We burst through the motel door, Roger quickly slamming it shut behind us as the wind battered us. I panted, looking around, my eyes settling on the startled face of the gnarled little man behind the front desk. I managed a polite smile as Roger finally secured the door with a grunt.

"Nasty weather out there, ain't it?" the desk attendant said, offering a toothless grin.

"Bit of an understatement," Roger murmured, straightening and glancing anxiously over his shoulder as he approached the desk. I followed, my hand pressed against the papers tucked under my shirt. Some of the outer ones were probably ruined, but I hoped the inner ones were dry.

"Well, you'll be good and dry here," the attendant said, nodding happily. "Looking for a room?"

"Sure," Roger said, shrugging and glancing at me. I nodded in agreement. We could wait in the lobby, I supposed, but the patched chairs and musty smell… honestly, a cleaner place to sit sounded appealing.

"We have room six," the attendant said thoughtfully, pointing to a set of keys on the wall. "That's our best room, but you'd have to go out into the storm." He indicated another set of keys labeled "12." "Twelve isn't as nice, but it's in the back of the building," he explained. "So you can stay inside if you don't want to get… wetter." He grimaced slightly.

"Twelve," Roger and I said in unison. The attendant smiled and handed over the key. Roger paid him.

Seeing the cash remaining in Roger's wallet, the attendant's eyes lit up. "Will you be needing any room service?" he asked.

"No," Roger replied firmly, and I was grateful. The thought of what this place might serve made my stomach churn. The attendant tossed the key to Roger, who caught it. He then took my hand. He returned my polite smile with a naughty wink, and I realized…

Oh my god, I thought, as Roger led me down the hall. That guy thinks we're a couple… that we're going in there to…

And then it hit me: I was in a sleazy motel with Roger Sinclair. Alone. In a room. With beds. To wait out the storm. My heart pounded as I followed him. Roger, perhaps sensing my change in mood, looked back with a smirk. I glared, but he tightened his grip on my hand as we passed the numbered rooms.

He unlocked room twelve.

"Oh my god," I murmured, all thoughts of scandal vanishing as I stared at the water-stained ceiling, the mysteriously stained rug, and the ancient-looking television. A wobbling ceiling fan threatened to plummet at any moment. Windows on the far side of the room overlooked the parking lot and a wooded area. The windows were slightly fogged, but clearly showed the raging storm.

"Actually, I kind of like it," Roger murmured, his eyebrows raised.

"What?!" I gasped, appalled.

"Sure," he said, grinning. "It's very true crime, very 'will they or won't they get murdered.' I like a motel room with a little bit of an edge. Keeps things exciting."

I rolled my eyes and glared, dropping his hand and striding into the room. Roger laughed as he closed the door. I examined the stained blanket on the bed, quickly stripping it off to reveal crisp white sheets beneath.

"That's better," I said, surprised.

"So eager to get between the sheets, Cora," Roger said, sitting on a wooden chair by the window and removing his soaked shoes. "I always took you for a—"

"Don't be gross," I murmured, placing my papers and phone on the bedside table. I removed my own shoes, wanting to be dry and warm. Roger chuckled, but I felt his weight on the bed as I took off my sock. I turned, surprised he'd joined me, and froze as he started to remove his shirt.

"Wha—" I gasped, my eyes widening, my wet sock dangling from my fingers. I couldn't help but glance at his abs—abs I hadn't seen since the night he cried in my arms. That intimacy was wiped away when I realized he wasn't wearing pants.

"Oh my god!" I exclaimed, jumping up. "Where are your clothes!?"

"Over there, Cora," he said, a little frustrated, gesturing to his discarded, soaked clothes on the floor. "I'm not sitting in wet clothes all afternoon." He smirked, pleased by my reaction to his near-nakedness. He leaned back against the headboard, lifting a leg onto the bed, looking completely relaxed. "Besides," he continued, smugly, "I don't see you complaining."

And I hated him—and myself—a little bit, because my first thought was that he looked like a damn underwear model.

"Complaint registered," I growled, throwing my wet sock at him. It landed, wetly, on his abs. Roger laughed, brushing it away as I stalked to the bathroom and slammed the door.

I took deep breaths, staring in the mirror. The storm raged outside. My stomach dropped as I wondered why this storm was here, who sent it. Because I knew—and Roger knew—it wasn't natural.

But despite that terrifying realization, all I could think about was the rain-slicked werewolf on the other side of the door. I gritted my teeth, leaning against the sink, wishing he were… just a little less hot. Or that his arrogant swagger didn't appeal to me so much.

"Cora?" Roger called, knocking gently. "Are you all right in there?"

"Fine!" I called back, my voice a little too shrill. "Just splashing water on my face!"

"All right," he said, sounding concerned. I heard him move away.

I faced myself in the mirror. "Come on, Cora," I growled, taking a deep breath. "You have to control yourself. You have a boyfriend. You can do this."

But even as I nodded, determined, a voice inside laughed and whispered, "No, baby. No, you can't. But why would you want to?"