"You're going to take this." I pulled out my wallet, counting out bills with deliberate precision. "Three months' rent at her current rate. Cash. Then you're going to give Miss Brown a receipt for it, stating clearly that her rent is paid in full through that period."

"Now wait just a—"

"I'm not done." I let something sharper creep into my voice.

Just enough edge to remind him that the patches on my jacket weren't for show.

"You're also going to fix that bathroom door, deal with the water stains on the ceiling, and make sure that window actually closes properly.

You know, like a landlord is legally required to do. "

Hoffman's face went through several shades of red. "You can't just come in here and—"

"Sure I can." I smiled, the kind that didn't reach my eyes. "See, Miss Brown is under the protection of the Heavy Kings MC now. That means her problems are our problems. Her enemies are our enemies. Anyone who tries to exploit her difficult situation for personal gain? Well."

I let the sentence hang, counting out the last of the bills. Twenty-five hundred dollars fifty in cash, fanned out like a poker hand.

"Of course," I continued, voice dropping to conversational, "you could refuse.

Could insist on your illegal rent increase.

Could try to evict her." I leaned in slightly, close enough that he could smell the leather and morning coffee.

"But then we'd have to have a different kind of conversation.

The kind that happens after dark. The kind that involves all my brothers and your home address. "

I watched him do the math. Take the money and walk away with profit and pride mostly intact. Or push it and find out exactly how the Heavy Kings dealt with men who preyed on the vulnerable.

"Three months," he said finally, reaching for the cash with greedy fingers. "Paid in full."

"And the receipt." I didn't let go of the bills yet. "Written and signed. Now."

His hands shook slightly as he pulled out a receipt book, scribbling the details with a pen that kept skipping. Three months' rent paid in full for Cleo Brown, unit 4B. Signed and dated. Legally binding.

"Pleasure doing business," I said, releasing the cash and taking the receipt. "Now get out."

He didn't need to be told twice.

T en minutes later, Hoffman was gone, his beat-up Camry peeling out of the parking lot like the Heavy Kings were already on his tail. I watched through the cracked window until his taillights disappeared around the corner.

Three months' rent. I’d been saving that cash for new bike parts.

But the look on that predator's face when he realized Cleo wasn't alone anymore, wasn't unprotected—that was worth more than any chrome upgrade.

The receipt in my pocket felt like victory, small but solid.

A problem solved with the right application of controlled violence and strategic generosity.

But when I turned back to Cleo, she was staring at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

Gratitude mixed with something that might have been fear.

Or maybe shame. Her arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together, and I noticed she'd positioned herself closer to the door.

Ready to run if I turned out to be just another man who wanted something from her.

"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly, voice threaded with something fragile. "I could have figured something out."

"With what money?" The words came out sharper than I intended, frustration bleeding through. "You just lost your van, your volunteer position, everything you owned. That asshole was going to bleed you dry or throw you on the streets."

She flinched, and I immediately felt like shit. She wasn't some club prospect I could bark orders at. She was a civilian who'd had her world destroyed twice in twenty-four hours, and here I was adding to the wreckage with my temper.

"I'm sorry." I forced my voice gentler, the tone I used with spooked horses and wounded brothers. "I didn't mean to snap. But you don't owe me anything for the rent, okay? Club takes care of its own."

"I'm not club." The words came out fierce, defensive. "I'm not anyone's property or responsibility or—"

"No," I agreed, cutting off what sounded like the start of a panic spiral. "You're not property. But you're under our protection now, whether you like it or not. That makes you our responsibility."

"Okay," she whispered finally. "Thank you. For the rent. For... everything."

"Come on." I nodded toward her garbage bag of belongings. "Let's get your stuff and get out of here. This place makes my skin crawl."

We packed in silence, Cleo moving through the small space with mechanical efficiency.

The garbage bag filled with worn clothes, a few paperback books with cracked spines, toiletries in a plastic bag from the dollar store.

The cardboard box of coloring supplies got tucked carefully under her arm, Mr. Friendly positioned on top like a guardian.

When she picked up a thin photo album from beside the mattress, her hands lingered on the cover.

"My mom," she said, not quite a question. "Pictures from before."

Before her father left. Before the medical bills. Before everything went to shit. I didn't push, just held the door while she took one last look around the apartment that had been her last fingernail grip on independence.

“You’ll be back,” I said. “Soon as it’s safe. Don’t worry.”

The ride back to my apartment was quiet, Cleo balanced behind me with her garbage bag wedged between us and the box clutched against her chest. She'd gotten better at riding, body moving with the bike instead of fighting it.

But I could feel the tension in her arms around my waist, the way she held herself apart even while holding on.

Three red lights. Two near-misses with drivers who thought turn signals were optional. One moment where she pressed her face against my back and I felt her shoulders shake—crying or just exhausted, I couldn't tell. Didn't matter. She was allowed to fall apart. God knew she'd earned it.

B ack at my apartment, I busied myself with the coffee ritual while Cleo sat on my couch like she was afraid to take up space.

The cardboard box balanced on her knees, arms wrapped around it like armor.

She hadn't said more than five words since we'd left her place, and the silence was starting to feel heavy with things that needed saying.

"The coloring books," I finally said, settling into the chair across from her with my mug. Safe distance. Clear boundaries. "How long have you been . . . ?"

I let the question trail off, not sure how to finish without sounding like I was judging. Or worse, like I was fishing for information I had no right to.

Her whole body went rigid, knuckles white where they gripped the box edges. For a moment, I thought she'd shut down completely. Build those walls higher and pretend we'd never had this conversation.

"It started after my mom died," she whispered, not meeting my eyes. Each word seemed to cost her something, pulled from somewhere deep and carefully guarded. "It was three years ago. I was an adult but . . . all of a sudden, I just needed something else."

“I’m sorry about your mom.”

"It’s okay. That’s the way life is. So, I got my own place—which you’ve seen—got jobs, tried to be normal. But sometimes the world felt too big, too loud. Like I was drowning in all the adult stuff I was supposed to just know how to do."

Her fingers traced the edge of the box, nervous energy looking for outlet. "The coloring made it quiet again. Made things small enough to handle. Just stay in the lines, pick the right colors, finish one page at a time. Simple."

Simple. Like anything about trauma was simple. Like finding ways to self-soothe when the world kept hitting was something to be ashamed of.

"My dad used to call me his little princess when I was small." The words came out so quiet I had to lean forward to hear them. "Before he decided the club was more important than his family. Before he left us to die slowly while he rode around playing outlaw."

There it was. The core of the wound, exposed and raw. I kept my face neutral, but inside something twisted hard enough to hurt.

"Tell me," I said softly. Not pushing, just opening the door if she wanted to walk through it.

She did.

"After he left, Mom got sicker. Diabetes, but we couldn't afford insulin half the time.

Couldn't keep the power on, couldn't buy decent food.

She tried so hard to keep us afloat, but .

. ." Her breath hitched, tears starting to track down her cheeks.

"She worked three jobs. Cleaned houses with neuropathy so bad she couldn't feel her feet.

Smiled through the pain because someone had to be strong for me. "

The coffee mug creaked in my grip. I set it down before I could crack the ceramic.

"Right before she died, she got a letter from him." Cleo's voice went hard, bitter as black coffee. "Demanding money he said we owed him. Money that never existed. Fifty thousand dollars, or he'd come collect what was his."

"What was his," I repeated, tasting the ugliness of it.

"Me." She laughed, broken glass and bile. "Like I was just another debt to be settled. Another asset to claim. He couldn't be bothered to send child support, couldn't help with Mom's medical bills, but suddenly he remembered he had a daughter when he needed leverage for some deal."

Her eyes flicked to the bear, which I’d put down on the table.

“You want this guy? Mr. Friendly?”

She nodded, and I passed him over to her. She clutched at the bear so tight I could almost feel it.

"He’s from back when Dad still came home at night. Back when we were still a family."