Page 24

But normal doesn't include being some asshole's punching bag, and I won't sit back and let this shit happen.

My phone buzzes.

Text from Tor about a run tomorrow, something about checking on our contacts after the Patriot's downfall.

I send back a quick confirmation, but my mind's not on club business right now.

It's on the blonde curly-haired woman who looked at me with those sage green eyes and asked if I really thought she was worth protecting.

Like there was any fucking doubt.

A familiar car pulls into the station's parking lot, and I straighten.

But it's not Everly—it's Gwen, arriving for her shift.

Which means Everly should have been here an hour ago if she was coming in.

"Fuck it," I mutter, starting my truck.

I know where Dylan lives.

Did my homework after Thanksgiving, couldn't help myself.

Upscale apartment complex on the other side of town, the kind of place where they don't ask questions as long as your check clears.

The drive takes twenty minutes, twenty minutes of telling myself this is a bad idea.

I'm crossing lines here, getting involved in shit that's not my business.

But I can't shake the image of those bruises, can't forget the way she said "I can handle it" like she was trying to convince herself more than me.

My mother's voice drifts through my memory, weak and thready from her hospital bed."Promise me something, baby. Promise me you'll never be like the men who hurt me. Promise you'll protect the ones who can't protect themselves."

I was twelve.

She died two hours later, leaving me with that promise and nothing else.

The apartment complex looms ahead, all glass and steel and money.

I pull into a spot across the street with a clear view of the exit.

I'm not going up there—I'm not that far gone.

But if she's in there, I want to see her leave.

Want to make sure she's okay.

An hour passes.

Then two. I'm about to give up when I finally see her.

Everly stumbles out of the building like she's drunk, but I know better.

That's not alcohol making her move so carefully.

That's pain.

She's holding something around herself—a man's robe from the look of it—and even from here, I can see she's in distress.