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"That's okay," I tell her. "You don't have to know. But you also don't have to do this alone."

"Yes, I do." She wipes at her cheeks angrily. "You don't understand. He's connected. He knows things about the club, about the Patriot situation. He's got pictures, information. If I leave, if I fight back, people get hurt."

"People are already getting hurt," I point out. "You're getting hurt."

"Better me than—" She cuts herself off, but I can fill in the blank.

Better her than her family. Better her than the club. Better her than anyone else.

Fucking martyr complex.

"He threatened Bjorn," she continues after a moment. "Tuesday at his physical therapy appointment. Dylan has someone on the inside, someone who could..." She trails off, wrapping her arms around herself.

"We can protect Bjorn," I say immediately. "Post guards, change his appointment time, whatever it takes."

"And then Dylan escalates. Goes after someone else. Florencia, maybe, or one of the other kids. I can't risk it."

"So you'll what? Let him keep hurting you until he finally goes too far?" The thought makes me sick. "You know where this ends, Everly. You're too smart not to see it."

"I'm handling it," she insists, but even she doesn't sound convinced.

"Like you handled it today?" I gesture at her carefully. "Whatever he did, however he hurt you, that's handling it?"

She flinches, and I immediately regret the harsh words.

But someone needs to give her a reality check before it's too late.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she says, but the fight's gone out of her voice.

"Then tell me." I lean against the counter, giving her space. "Help me understand why you're protecting him."

"I'm not protecting him!" The words explode out of her. "I'm protecting everyone else! You think I don't know what he is? You think I don't see where this is going? But what choice do I have?"

"You have me," I say simply. "You have the club. You have people who would burn the fucking world down to keep you safe if you'd just let them."

She shakes her head, tears flowing freely now. "You don't understand what he's capable of."

"Then tell me." I move closer, slowly, like I'm approaching a wounded animal. "Tell me what he's got on you. Tell me why you're so scared. Let me help."

For a moment, I think she might.

Her mouth opens, and I can see the words crowding behind her teeth, desperate to escape.

But then she closes it, shakes her head.

"I can't," she whispers. "Not yet. I just... I need time to figure things out."

"How much time?" I ask, even though every instinct screams to throw her over my shoulder and take her somewhere safe right now. "How many more beatings? How much more pain before you say enough is enough?"

"I don't know." She meets my eyes then, and the despair there nearly brings me to my knees. "Maybe soon. Maybe... maybe something will change."

The coffee maker beeps, finished.

She turns to pour two cups, hands shaking slightly.

I take the one she offers, our fingers brushing in the exchange.

She doesn't pull away.