Dex

T he engine died with a final growl that echoed off the alley walls, and my hands were still vibrating from the handlebars when I realized she hadn't let go.

Her arms stayed locked around my waist like she'd welded herself there, face still pressed against my leather jacket.

Rain hammered the corrugated metal overhang above us, but down here in the narrow space between buildings, we were protected.

Sort of.

My heart slammed against my ribs hard enough to hurt.

The ride through Ironridge had been pure instinct—weave through traffic, cut down alleys too narrow for the Serpents to follow, use every trick twenty years of riding had taught me.

But now, with the immediate danger past and this stranger clinging to me like I was the only solid thing in her world, reality started seeping in.

"We're here," I said, voice rougher than intended. "You can let go now."

She released me like I'd burned her, scrambling off the bike with none of the grace she'd shown getting on.

Her sneakers splashed in a puddle, and she stumbled back until she hit the brick wall.

In the yellow security light, I got my first real look at her—soaked through, honey-brown hair plastered to her head, hazel eyes wide with what wasn't quite fear anymore but wasn't trust either.

“I’m Dex.”

“Cleo,” she replied.

“Glad I found you.”

"I didn't need rescuing." The words came out sharp, defensive. She wrapped her arms around herself, water streaming off her clothes onto the cracked asphalt. "I had it handled."

Right. Three Serpents, one woman on foot in a thunderstorm. Real handled.

"Sure you did." I swung off the bike, movements deliberate and slow. No sudden gestures. She was like a spooked cat, all raised hackles and nowhere to run. "That's why you were playing tag with armed bikers in the rain."

She bristled at that, chin coming up. Defiance looked good on her, better than the terror I'd seen when the Serpents cornered her. But her hands were shaking, fine tremors she was trying to hide by hugging herself tighter.

"Come on." I nodded toward the metal door set into the brick. "Let's get inside before they circle back."

That got her moving. The mention of the Serpents returning cut through whatever pride was keeping her glued to that wall. She followed me to the door, keeping distance between us like I might be the next threat. Smart girl. In her position, I wouldn't trust me either.

The door opened onto a narrow staircase, harsh fluorescents flickering overhead.

I led the way up, hyperaware of her footsteps behind me.

Light. Cautious. Ready to bolt. At the top, I worked through the three locks on my apartment door—deadbolt, chain, the special one Duke had installed after the thing with Vanessa.

"Paranoid much?" she muttered behind me.

"Prepared." I pushed the door open, reaching in to flip on the lights. "There's a difference."

My apartment materialized in warm lamplight—nothing fancy, but clean.

Organized. The open kitchen and living room, my books lined up just so on the shelves.

The locked door to my workshop that she didn't need to know about.

It felt too small suddenly, too intimate with her standing in the doorway dripping on my welcome mat.

"Bathroom's through there." I pointed down the short hallway, then moved to the closet by the door. "I'll find you something dry to wear."

She didn't move. Just stood there studying my space like she was memorizing exits. Her whole body was one tense line, ready to fight or flee at the first sign of danger. Christ, what had happened to her to make her this wary?

"I should go." But she didn't move toward the door. Couldn't, probably. We both knew what waited out there.

"The Serpents know what you look like now." I pulled out one of my Heavy Kings t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants that would swim on her. "They've got your face, your build. Every corner boy and hanger-on will be watching for you."

Her jaw tightened. I could see her processing that, understanding the implications. The Serpents didn't forgive interference. Especially not from civilians. Especially not when it cost them an asset like Jessie Statton.

"Just for tonight," I said, setting the clothes on the arm of the couch. "Get warm, get dry. Figure out your next move when you're not shaking like a leaf."

"I'm not shaking." But her voice wavered, giving away the lie.

She made me think of Vanessa, early days. All sharp edges and wounded pride, convinced the world was out to hurt her. Determined to hurt it first. That hadn't ended well for anyone.

"Bathroom," I repeated, gentler this time. "Towels are under the sink."

She finally moved, snatching the clothes off the couch and disappearing down the hallway. The bathroom door clicked shut, then I heard the lock turn. Smart girl. I moved through my apartment, double-checking the door locks, pulling the blinds. Making it secure. Making it safe.

The shower started running, and I tried not to think about the stranger in my bathroom. Tried not to wonder what kind of trouble I'd just invited into my life. T

I pulled out my phone, typed a quick message to Thor: Serpents were hunting Jessie Statton near the shelter. Had to intervene. Check on the girl.

His response came fast: On it. You good?

I looked toward the bathroom, heard water still running. Was I good? Time would tell.

Yeah. Handling a situation. Fill you in tomorrow .

Roger that.

I pocketed the phone and moved to the kitchen. She'd need something warm when she came out. Something that said "you're safe here" without saying "I'm trying to take care of you." Because that way lay danger, and I'd learned that lesson the hard way.

T wenty-three minutes. I knew because I'd been watching the clock on the microwave, pretending to organize already-organized kitchen drawers while she used up what had to be half my hot water tank. Then the bathroom door opened, and I made the mistake of looking.

Christ.

She stood in my hallway drowning in my clothes—the Heavy Kings t-shirt hanging past her thighs, sweatpants rolled up at least three times and still pooling around her ankles.

Her hair was damp and curling around her shoulders, face scrubbed clean of makeup I hadn't realized she'd been wearing.

She looked about twenty-five. Maybe younger.

Definitely too young for the way my chest tightened at the sight of her in my shirt.

I turned back to the stove fast enough to crack my neck. "Want some hot cocoa?"

"Hot cocoa?" Disbelief colored her voice. "What am I, five?"

"It's that or whiskey, and you're still shaking." I pulled down two mugs, the ones without chips or motorcycle logos. "Cocoa's better for shock."

Silence behind me. Then soft footsteps on the hardwood, moving toward the living room.

I focused on the simple task—milk in the pot, cocoa powder, sugar.

Muscle memory from too many nights making this for Vanessa when she'd show up at my door crying about her latest crisis.

Back when I thought I could fix broken things with patience and Swiss Miss.

The milk started to steam. I stirred, watching the cocoa swirl and darken, trying not to remember.

Vanessa had liked extra marshmallows. Called them "floaties" in that little-girl voice she'd use when she wanted something.

I'd thought it was cute then. Endearing.

Hadn't recognized it for the manipulation it was until Duke found her texts to the Riverside crew, every detail about our security, our routes, our vulnerabilities laid out nice and neat.

"You don't have to do this." Her voice came from the couch, defensive walls already rebuilding. "I'm not some charity case."

"Never said you were." I added vanilla extract—the good stuff, not imitation. Small luxuries mattered when everything else was chaos. "But you stood up to three Serpents for a stranger. Least I can do is make you a decent cup of cocoa."

I risked a glance over my shoulder. She'd curled into the corner of my couch, legs tucked under her, making herself as small as possible. The overhead light caught the gold in her hazel eyes, the exhaustion she was trying to hide behind sharp words.

"Marshmallows?" I asked.

"I—" She stopped, surprise flickering across her features. "Yeah. Sure."

I dropped a handful into each mug, watched them bob on the surface like tiny life preservers.

Carried both mugs to the living room, handed hers over handle-first so she wouldn't have to touch my fingers taking it.

She accepted it with both hands, wrapping them around the ceramic like it was the first warm thing she'd touched all night.

"Thank you." Quiet. Sincere. Nothing like the defensive woman from ten minutes ago.

I took the armchair across from her. Safe distance. Clear boundaries. No mixed signals. The coffee table between us might as well have been a wall, and that was good. Smart.

She took a tentative sip, and her eyes fluttered closed. For one second, all the armor dropped. She was just a exhausted woman drinking cocoa in borrowed clothes, and something in my chest twisted hard enough to hurt. When she opened her eyes again, some of the wariness had faded.

"This is really good." She sounded surprised. "Like, actually good. Not packet stuff?"

"My grandmother's recipe." Truth. Nana had made cocoa like this, back when I was small enough to believe in good things. "Secret’s real vanilla and never letting the milk boil."

She took another sip, shoulders dropping incrementally. The wet clothes had hidden how small she really was—delicate bones, fine features. In my clothes, she looked like a kid playing dress-up. Except for her eyes. Those eyes had seen things, carried weight that had nothing to do with age.

"Why did you help me?" The question came out of nowhere, sharp with suspicion. "You don't know me. I'm nobody to you."