Page 46

Cleo

T he community center smelled like hope—coffee and donuts mixing with the dusty sweetness of donated toys, children's voices bouncing off concrete walls.

I moved between tables loaded with secondhand treasures, my hands steady for the first time in days.

This was what I'd missed. Not just the shelter, but the feeling of making a difference.

I just prayed that the serpent’s weren’t about to ruin it.

Dex had told me that it was probable, almost certain. But he’d also told me that he had a plan. Didn’t go into the details, but he seemed confident.

"Cleo, sweetheart, can you help me with these?" Mrs. Andrews called from across the room, her gray hair escaping from its usual bun as she wrestled with a heavy box.

I crossed to her quickly, taking one end of the box before she could strain herself. Together we carried it to the Scout Craft display—the premium spot Elena had reserved for the anonymous donor whose donations drew the biggest prices.

"Careful now," Mrs. Andrews said as we set it down. "These pieces are special."

Special was an understatement. I lifted out the first item—a dollhouse so perfect it made my chest tight.

Three stories of miniature perfection, each room fully furnished with pieces no bigger than my thumbnail.

A tiny rocking chair that actually rocked.

Kitchen cabinets with doors that opened to reveal dishes the size of raindrops.

"Look at this," I breathed, running my finger along the dollhouse's peaked roof. The shingles had been carved individually, each one distinct. "The hours this must have taken . . ."

"The dedication," Mrs. Andrews agreed, unwrapping another piece. "Whoever Scout Craft is, they understand what these children need. Not just toys, but proof that someone cared enough to make something beautiful just for them."

I thought about all the donations I'd seen over the years—the rushed drop-offs, the tax-deduction afterthoughts. These were different. These were love made tangible, hours of careful work that spoke of someone who understood what it meant to have nothing and need beauty anyway.

Movement near the entrance caught my eye.

Dex stood with Thor, both men in that casual-but-ready stance I'd learned to recognize.

Dex's leather cut was absent—too conspicuous for a family event—but his eyes moved constantly, cataloging faces and exits.

Thor looked almost comical trying to appear non-threatening, his massive frame barely fitting through the doorway as he smiled at a mother with a stroller.

Our eyes met across the room. Dex's mouth quirked in that barely-there smile that made my stomach flip. I gave him a tiny wave, then turned back to the toys before Mrs. Andrews could catch me mooning over my boyfriend like a teenager.

"The bear collection is my favorite," Elena's voice came from behind me.

She'd appeared with her usual quiet grace, carrying a pricing gun and wearing the same patient smile that had gotten me through so many dark nights.

"Every year, Scout Craft sends hand-carved bears.

Each one unique, each one perfect for some child who needs it. "

She picked up one of the wooden bears from the display, holding it out to me. "Look at this craftsmanship. The expression, the way the grain of the wood creates natural patterns in the fur. Some child is going to treasure this forever."

The bear was heavier than I'd expected, solid maple carved with obvious skill. Something about its face—the slight tilt of the head, the gentle expression—triggered a memory I couldn't quite catch. It made me think of happiness, of safety, of being small and protected.

Without thinking, I reached for Mr. Friendly where he sat on the corner of the table. I'd brought him for comfort, knowing today might be difficult. My fingers found the familiar worn patches where Mom had mended him over the years, the slightly lopsided ear from when I'd loved him too hard.

"He's seen better days," Elena observed gently, recognizing the well-loved toy.

"Battle scars," I said, echoing Dex's words from that first week. "Mom patched him up so many times. See this seam? That's from when I was seven and thought he could fly. And this patch on his belly is from when Dad—"

I stopped, not wanting to poison this good day with memories of Dad's rage.

"He's perfect," Elena said simply. "Loved things usually are."

I squeezed Mr. Friendly tighter, feeling the slight crinkle of his stuffing, the way he'd molded to the shape of my arms over the years. Setting him back on the table, I returned to unpacking the Scout Craft donations with renewed energy.

"These puzzle boxes are incredible," Mrs. Andrews said, holding up an intricate wooden cube. "Hidden compartments and everything. The children are going to go wild for these."

We worked in comfortable rhythm, the three of us arranging the display to best showcase each piece.

Around us, the charity drive hummed with life.

Parents browsed tables while children pressed noses against glass cases.

Volunteers refilled coffee urns and straightened donation piles.

The whole space vibrated with community, with people choosing to help each other simply because it was right.

"I missed this," I admitted quietly, adjusting a row of hand-carved trains. "Being part of something that matters."

Elena's hand found my shoulder, warm and steady. "You never stopped mattering, sweetheart. Sometimes we just need to step away to remember who we are."

I thought about the past weeks—the fear, the secrets, the walls I'd built.

How different it felt to stand here now, surrounded by people who saw me as someone who could give rather than just receive.

The Kings provided security, Dex gave me love and safety, but this—this sense of purpose—was something I'd had to find again on my own.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it with every fiber. "For asking me to help. For still seeing me as—"

"Family," Elena finished firmly. "That's what you are, Cleo. That never changed."

Thor's laugh boomed across the room—apparently some brave child had asked to try on his rings.

I watched him crouch down to toddler level, his fierce face transformed by genuine delight as he let tiny fingers explore the heavy silver skulls.

Even Dex had relaxed slightly, chatting with one of the shelter dads about motorcycle maintenance.

I picked up another carved bear, feeling its weight, its promise of comfort for some child who needed it.

And just then, everything changed.

The black SUVs pulled up like a funeral procession, and every happy sound in the community center died.

My body knew before my mind caught up—the way my spine went rigid, my breath catching like a fist in my throat.

Iron Serpent patches flickered past the windows, and fifteen years collapsed into nothing.

"Get the children to the back room," Elena said quietly, her emergency-calm voice cutting through the sudden stillness. Parents didn't need to be told twice. They scooped up kids with practiced efficiency.

But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Because through the glass doors, I saw him.

Dad. Rhett "Rattler" Brown looked exactly like my nightmares had preserved him.

Tall and lean in that predatory way, snake tattoos coiling up his arms. His gray hair was longer now, pulled back in a ponytail that made him look like some aging rock star instead of the monster who'd terrorized my childhood.

The leather cut hung on him like a second skin, Iron Serpents patches proclaiming him to exactly what he was—poison given form.

But it was what he carried that broke through my paralysis. Jessie hung over his shoulder like a sack of garbage, her slight form completely limp. Her hair dragged against his back, arms dangling, and I couldn't tell if she was breathing.

"No," I whispered, but the word had no power against what was happening.

The doors burst open with theatrical force. Rattler strode in like he owned the place, boots heavy on the concrete floor. Behind him, more Serpents fanned out—blocking exits with casual efficiency. The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

"Well, well," his voice filled the space, that same whiskey-rough drawl that used to announce whether it would be a good night or a bad one. "Look what we have here—a family reunion."

His eyes swept the room with lazy arrogance, cataloging the frozen volunteers, the displays of toys, the Heavy Kings scattered throughout. They landed on me with the weight of a physical blow.

"Hello, princess. Daddy's home."

The words hit like bullets, each one finding old wounds I thought had scarred over. I hated to hear him call me Princess.

Dex moved immediately, stepping between us with that lethal grace he usually kept hidden. But Rattler just laughed—the sound sharp as breaking glass.

"Easy there, Road Captain. We're just here to collect what's ours." He shifted Jessie's weight, making sure everyone could see clearly. Then he opened his cut wider, to make sure we could all see the gun at his hip. "My daughter, and the money her lying bitch mother stole from us."

The casual cruelty of it, the way he talked about Mom like she was nothing, made my vision go red at the edges. But it was the gun that turned my blood to ice.

"Brought insurance to make sure everyone stays reasonable," he continued, pulling the gun from its holster. His voice was conversational like we were discussing the weather. "Wouldn't want this sweet little junkie to suffer because people couldn't be civilized."

Junkie. The word made me flinch, remembering Jessie's track marks that first night, her desperate need for protection. She'd been trying to get clean, trying to build something better. And now she was unconscious in my father's arms because of me.