Page 9

Good question. One I'd been avoiding asking myself since I'd heard her challenge those Serpents. The smart answer was club business—protecting civilians was part of the job. The real answer was more complicated and a hell of a lot more dangerous.

"You helped Jessie." I kept my voice neutral, matter-of-fact. "That took guts."

"Stupidity, more like." But there was no real self-recrimination in it. She'd do it again. We both knew it.

"Maybe." I lifted my own mug. The scent brought back memories. "But the world needs more people willing to be stupid for the right reasons."

She studied me over the rim of her mug, those hazel eyes trying to peel back layers. Looking for the angle, the trap, the thing that would bite. I recognized the look.

There was something more, though.

She was trying to hide it, but I'd been watching long enough to know the signs.

Little tremors in her hands that made the cocoa slosh.

The way she kept pulling the hem of my t-shirt down over her knees.

Her skin still had that waxy pallor that meant her body was fighting shock, burning through adrenaline reserves that weren't infinite.

"You're shivering." I set my mug on the coffee table, decision made. "I need to check if you're going into shock."

Her whole body went rigid. "I'm fine."

"You're not." I kept my voice calm, clinical. Road Captain voice, the one I used when brothers came back from runs bleeding and insisting they were good to ride. "Shock can hit delayed. Twenty minutes, an hour after trauma. Even later. Your body's been running on adrenaline, and now it's crashing."

"I said I'm fine." But her voice wavered along with her hands, undercutting the defiance.

"Humor me." I stood slowly, telegraphing the movement. "I'm trained in field medicine. Part of the job. I'll check your vitals, make sure you're stable. Nothing more."

She watched me approach like I might suddenly sprout fangs. Fair enough. Strange man, strange apartment, middle of the night. Every self-defense instinct probably screaming warnings in her head.

"Just your pulse and temperature," I said, stopping at the coffee table. Arms length away. "You can say stop anytime."

A long moment where she weighed options. Then a tiny nod, permission granted with massive reluctance.

I moved around the coffee table, slow as molasses. Sat on the edge—not crowding, not looming. Close enough to reach her wrist when she finally, grudgingly extended her arm.

"I'm going to check your pulse now." Narrating like she was a skittish horse. My fingers found the inside of her wrist, and Jesus, her skin was soft. Cold, though. Too cold.

Her pulse jumped under my touch, rabbit-quick but steady.

I counted beats, watching the second hand on my watch, trying not to notice how small her wrist was in my hand.

How my fingers could wrap all the way around with room to spare.

Trying not to think about other circumstances, other reasons I might hold a woman's wrist like this.

"Fast but stable," I murmured, releasing her before I could do something stupid like stroke my thumb over her pulse point. "That's normal after adrenaline. Now temperature."

I lifted my hand slowly toward her forehead.

She tracked the movement, those hazel eyes huge in her face.

When the back of my hand touched her skin, she sucked in a breath.

But she didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned into it—just a fraction, probably unconscious, seeking warmth she didn't even know she needed.

"You're cold." My voice came out rougher than intended. "But not dangerously. Probably just the rain and stress."

I should have pulled my hand away then. Should have retreated back to my chair, reestablished safe distances. Instead, I found myself turning my hand, cupping her cheek properly. Her eyes fluttered half-closed, and Christ, when was the last time someone had touched her with gentleness?

That's when I saw it.

Her other hand had drifted up while we were focused on the medical check. Her thumb hovered near her mouth, not quite making contact but wanting to. The gesture was unconscious, automatic. The kind of self-soothing behavior that ran deeper than thought.

She realized what she was doing in the same moment I did. Her eyes snapped fully open, hand jerking down like it had been burned. Color flooded her cheeks—embarrassment and something else. Shame, maybe. Fear that I'd seen too much.

I pulled my hand back, giving her space.

But the damage was done. That one gesture had told me more than an hour of conversation.

Thumb-sucking in adults wasn't common. Usually meant early trauma, disrupted attachment, a need for comfort that never got properly met.

In certain contexts, it meant something else entirely.

My chest felt too tight. This was familiar territory.

Dangerous territory. Vanessa had done the same thing—little gestures, unconscious tells that spoke to vulnerability and need.

I'd seen them as signs she needed protection, needed care.

Had built whole fantasies about being what she needed, giving her the safety to be herself.

Look how that turned out.

"It's okay," I said, because she was still frozen with mortification. "We all have ways of dealing with stress."

"I don't—I mean, I haven't—" She stumbled over words, defenses crumbling. "It's not what you think."

"I'm not thinking anything."

That was a lie.

"Sometimes when I'm really stressed . . ." She trailed off, misery written across her features.

"You don't have to explain." I moved back to my chair, needing distance. "We all have coping mechanisms. Nothing to be ashamed of."

She pulled her knees up to her chest, making herself smaller. The oversized shirt pooled around her, and she looked lost in it. Lost and young and in need of something I couldn't give. Not again.

"Thanks," she whispered. "For checking on me. For not . . ."

For not what? Judging? Taking advantage? Seeing her tell and using it against her?

"Just drink your cocoa," I said gently. "Get warm. Everything else can wait until morning."

She nodded, lifting her mug with hands that still trembled slightly. But the worst of the shaking had stopped. My touch—brief as it was—had grounded her. Given her what she needed without either of us acknowledging what that was.

"Those bikers." She broke the silence that had settled between us. "They were after that girl. Jessie?"

"Yeah." I set my mug down, choosing words carefully. "She's had a rough go of it."

"She looked so young." Cleo pulled the blanket tighter, processing what she'd witnessed. "Those men, they talked like they owned her."

Because they did, in every way that mattered. But how did you explain that to someone who still had innocence in her eyes? Someone who'd risked her neck for a stranger because it was the right thing to do?

"Jessie's caught up in some bad situations." I kept my voice neutral, clinical. "Drugs were the start. Gateway to worse things. The Serpents, they look for girls like her. Young, desperate, no family watching out for them."

"But there are programs. Shelters. Places she could go for help."

Christ, the hope in her voice. Like the system actually worked. Like there were safety nets that caught everyone who fell.

"She's been in programs. Three rehabs in the last year. The Serpents always find her, convince her to leave." I rubbed my jaw, feeling the stubble I'd meant to shave this morning. A lifetime ago. "They've got their hooks in her. Psychological. Financial. Other ways."

Cleo shifted on the couch, processing. I could see her struggling with the weight of it, the reality she'd stumbled into.

"What did they mean about assets?" she asked finally. "They said she was an asset."

How did you explain trafficking to someone who still believed in good outcomes?

"Girls like Jessie generate income for them." I picked each word like stepping through a minefield. "They don't give up their investments easily."

"Income how?" But her face was already changing, innocence cracking like ice in spring. "Oh. Oh God."

"Yeah." One word carrying all the ugliness I couldn't dress up pretty.

"But she's just a kid."

"That's the point." My hands tightened on my knees. "Easier to control. Easier to break."

The silence stretched heavy between us. I watched her process the reality of what she'd walked into, what she'd risked herself for. Most people would have regretted getting involved. Would have wished they'd kept walking, stayed safe in their ignorance.

But her jaw set with determination instead of regret. "Will they hurt her? For running?"

"They'll try to find her. But I've got people who can help. One of my brothers will check on her," I said. "Already messaged about it. We’ll make sure she's somewhere safe. Or as safe as we can manage."

"Brothers?" Confusion crossed her features. "You have family in town?"

"Club brothers." I gestured vaguely at my jacket hanging by the door, the Heavy Kings patch visible. "My MC. We look out for each other. Look out for the community too."

Her face went carefully blank. That mask sliding back into place, walls rebuilding brick by brick. "Right. Of course. Bikers looking out for the community."

The skepticism in her voice should have annoyed me. Instead, I found myself fighting a grin. She had stones, this one.

"We're not all the same," I said mildly. "The Kings aren't like the Serpents. We don't deal drugs. Don't traffic girls. Don't prey on the weak."

"Just honest, hardworking motorcycle enthusiasts?" The sarcasm was thick enough to cut.

"Honest might be stretching it." Now I did grin. "But we've got lines we don't cross. The Serpents, they're about money and power. Nothing else matters. The Kings? We're about brotherhood. Protection. Keeping our town from turning into their playground."

She studied me like I was a puzzle missing pieces. "You really believe that? That you're the good guys?"