Page 10

I leaned back in my leather chair, listening to the muffled sounds of the bar below as evening settled over King's Tavern.

I had a feeling, like I was due some company. Thor hadn't said a word when he'd passed Mia's door earlier, but the stiffening of his massive shoulders told me everything. It wasn't a question of if we'd have this conversation, but when.

Sure enough, three minutes later, there was a knock at my door. I didn't even bother answering—I knew who it was. The door swung open, and Thor's massive frame filled the doorway, Tyson's leaner silhouette visible just behind him.

"Boys," I said, gesturing to the chairs opposite my desk. Thor ignored the invitation, choosing instead to pace the length of my office like a caged predator. His heavy boots thudded against the worn floorboards, each step deliberate and controlled, betraying the effort it took to contain his anger.

Tyson, by contrast, slipped in quietly and leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. His calm exterior revealed nothing, but I knew him well enough to read the slight tightening around his eyes. He was worried, not angry. Sometimes that was worse.

Thor finally stopped pacing, planting his feet squarely in front of my desk. His massive shoulders blocked the light from the window behind him, casting his face in shadow.

"You want to explain why there's a woman connected to Jesse Malone staying in our clubhouse?" His voice was controlled yet edged with anger, each word precise and clipped. The restraint itself was a courtesy, born of two decades of brotherhood.

I set my glass down slowly, deliberately, buying time to order my thoughts. "She has a name. Mia."

"I don't give a fuck what her name is, I call her ‘Liability.’" Thor growled. I knew that wasn't true. Thor cared about everyone, sometimes too much. It was what made him both dangerous and invaluable. But still, I could understand why he was upset. "She's Jesse Malone's ex. That makes her Serpent business. Serpent business doesn't belong under our roof."

I met his gaze steadily, fingers steepled beneath my chin. "She's running from him. From the Serpents. That makes her our business."

Thor's laugh was short and bitter. "Since when do we make decisions like that without bringing it to the table first?"

There it was—the real issue. Not that I'd offered protection, but that I'd done it unilaterally, without consulting the club.

"Thor's right," Tyson said quietly from his position against the wall. "It's not like you to keep secrets from the club, Duke. Not about something this significant."

I felt the weight of their scrutiny and knew my reasons weren't purely tactical. Still, I started with the logic, the justification I'd rehearsed in my head.

"Keeping Mia close gives us intelligence on Serpent activities," I explained, my tone measured and reasonable. "She lived with Jesse for years. She's seen their operations, heard their plans. She knows things about the Serpents—maybe more than she realizes."

I leaned forward, warming to my argument. "She's scared, exhausted, and running from Jesse. Who better to tell us what those snakes are planning?"

Tyson's eyes narrowed slightly. I knew he appreciated tactical advantages, but he also recognized bullshit when he heard it.

"If this is strategic," he asked carefully, "why keep it from the club? Why not put her in a safehouse instead of our building?"

A valid question. One I'd asked myself repeatedly over the past three days as I'd watched Mia slowly begin to trust me, to relax in small, cautious increments.

"The fewer people who know, the safer she is. The safer we all are." It sounded reasonable, even to my own ears.

Thor wasn't buying it. He planted his massive hands on my desk, leaning forward until his face was level with mine. The wood creaked beneath his weight.

"This isn't just about club business for you, is it?" His directness caught me off-guard, the question landing like a punch to the gut.

I could have lied. As president, I could have shut down the conversation, reminded them of my rank, my authority to make decisions. But these were more than my VP and Sergeant-at-Arms. They were my brothers, had been since we were kids riding bicycles through Ironridge's back streets.

After a moment of silence, I admitted the truth they already suspected. "There's something about her . . . she's vulnerable but fighting like hell to stay strong."

Thor's posture softened slightly. He straightened, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders.

"Could still be a trap," he said, but the edge had left his voice. "Serpents are crafty bastards. They know we're old-school—we don't hurt women. What better way to plant someone in our midst?"

Tyson pushed off from the wall, stepping closer to the desk. "You have to admit the timing is suspicious," he said. "Tensions are already high after their last shipment went through our territory without permission. If they were looking to gather intelligence on us, now would be the time."

I nodded, acknowledging their concerns. They weren't wrong to question me. It was their job, their duty to the club.

"I've considered that," I admitted. "But remember when we we found her, Thor. She was half-starved, sleeping in her car with that dog of hers. Then when I mentioned Jesse, there was fear in her eyes—you can't fake that kind of terror."

"Well, Jesse's a psychotic piece of shit," Thor conceded. "That part checks out."

"I'll have Burns verify her story," Tyson offered. "Discreetly. If she's legitimate, we'll know soon enough."

I nodded my agreement. It was a reasonable precaution, one I should have taken myself if I'd been thinking clearly. But clarity had been in short supply since I'd first met Mia.

"I've made my decision," I said, the finality in my tone signaling the end of the discussion. "She stays under our protection, under my watch. If I'm wrong, I'll handle the consequences."

Thor studied me for a long moment, his blue eyes searching mine. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him, at least partially. He gave a grudging nod.

"Your call, Prez. But the club should know. Not all the details, but enough that they understand why there's a stranger under our roof."

"Agreed," Tyson added. "We don't need specifics, but they need to know she's here with your blessing and that she’d under your protection. Secrets have a way of backfiring, especially in close quarters."

I knew they were right. The brotherhood was built on trust. I'd compromised that, however slightly, by keeping Mia's presence quiet.

"I'll tell them at tomorrow's meeting," I conceded. "Just the basics."

They accepted this with nods, the matter settled for now. As they turned to leave, Thor paused at the door, looking back at me over his massive shoulder.

"Just be careful, brother," he said, concern evident beneath the gruff exterior. "Vulnerability is attractive, but it's also dangerous."

The words hit uncomfortably close to home, echoing my own doubts. I watched them go without responding, then reached for my whiskey, finishing it in one burning swallow.

The empty glass hit the desk with a dull thud. My hands weren't quite steady, and I flexed them, trying to regain control. Thor was right to warn me. I'd spent years building walls around myself, keeping emotional entanglements at arm's length. The club came first – always had, always would.

Yet here I was, risking everything for a woman I barely knew, feelings I didn't want stirring beneath my carefully maintained control. The worst part was, even knowing the danger, I couldn't bring myself to regret taking her in.

***

Eager to keep my word, the next day, I pushed through the heavy oak door of our meeting room, feeling the weight of responsibility settle across my shoulders like my leather cut.

The room fell silent as I entered—club members tracked my movement to the head of the table. These men would die for me without question. They deserved a leader whose mind wasn't split between duty and the woman hiding upstairs.

Thor and Tyson flanked me as I took my seat, the three of us forming the leadership triangle that had guided the club through its most prosperous years. The other officers filled in around us—Road Captain, Secretary, Treasurer—followed by full-patch members according to seniority. The hierarchy was clear, unspoken but understood by all.

I nodded to Beck, our Secretary, who opened his weathered leather ledger. The familiar routine of club business began—a comfortable rhythm I could navigate in my sleep.

"First order of business," I announced, "the charity run for the children's hospital. Dex, where are we with the route permits?"

Dex, our Road Captain, outlined progress on the upcoming event—our annual toy drive that legitimized our presence in Ironridge's eyes and genuinely helped local kids. I listened with half an ear, asking the right questions at the right times while my thoughts drifted to the small room upstairs.

Had Mia eaten today? I'd left food outside her door this morning, but she'd been asleep when I checked on her before the meeting.

"Duke?" Tyson's voice pulled me back. He'd caught my momentary distraction, his eyes narrowing slightly.

I cleared my throat. "Proceed with the permit applications. I want police cooperation for traffic control, same as last year." I shuffled the papers in front of me. "Next—the shipment coming in Thursday. Terry, you've arranged the warehouse?"

Terry nodded, detailing security measures for our incoming gun shipment—the legitimate part of our business supplying local hunters and collectors, paperwork clean as church on Sunday. I guided the conversation with practiced ease, compartmentalizing my concerns about Mia to focus on club priorities.

We moved through financial reports, territory patrols, and the ongoing renovations to our eastern garage. My concentration remained steady until Burns, our intelligence officer, cleared his throat. The room's atmosphere shifted subtly at the sound.

Burns was a quiet man, ex-military like Tyson, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. When he spoke, we listened.

"Got news on Serpent activity," he said, his voice gravelly from decades of smoking. "They're definitely searching for someone."

He spread surveillance photos across the table—grainy images taken from distance, but clear enough. I recognized Jesse Malone's lanky form outside a gas station thirty miles south. Another showed two patched Serpents talking to a waitress at a diner in Westfield, just fifteen miles from our border. A third captured Serpents questioning an elderly man outside a motel.

"Woman and a dog, according to my sources," Burns continued, tapping one of the photos. "Jesse Malone's leading the hunt personally. Been at it nearly a week, getting more aggressive with each passing day."

Murmurs rippled through the gathered members. I maintained a neutral expression despite my racing thoughts, aware of Thor and Tyson's subtle glances in my direction.

My fingers remained steady as I picked up one of the photos, examining it with clinical detachment that belied the tightening in my chest. "How many Serpents involved?"

Burns shrugged, scratching his gray-stubbled chin. "At least six spotted in different locations. They're being methodical, working a grid pattern outward from Coldwater. They'll hit Ironridge eventually."

"They know better than to cross our borders," Hawk, one of our younger members, said with confident bravado. "Last time cost them too much."

I studied Hawk's eager expression—the kid was barely twenty-five, patched in just eighteen months ago. He hadn't been with us during the last war, hadn't helped bury our brothers or spent sleepless nights wondering if the Serpents would hit our families next.

"Never underestimate what a desperate man will do," I cautioned, my voice deliberately measured. "Especially Jesse Malone. He's unstable on a good day."

"What's their interest in this woman?" Terry asked, frowning at the photos. "Must be important if Jax Malone is letting his brother use this many resources."

I felt Thor shift beside me, his massive presence a silent reminder of our earlier conversation. The question hung in the air, uncomfortably close to secrets I wasn't ready to share.

“I have some news on that front. We have the woman.”

There was a murmur of surprise.

“She’s under my protection. If the Serps want her, it’s in our interests to keep her from them.”

“What if they find out?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. We can spot those morons a mile off.”

"What about Jesse?" Tyson asked, always the strategist. "If he's personally invested in finding this woman, he might try coming in alone, without colors. Harder to spot."

It was a valid concern. Jesse was erratic but not stupid. He might attempt to slip into Ironridge under the radar rather than risk a direct confrontation.

"Distribute his photo to our businesses and allies," I decided. "Gas stations, bars, motels. Eyes open, but subtle. We don't need to advertise our interest."

The meeting continued, but my thoughts repeatedly drifted to the small room upstairs where Mia was staying. Burns' report confirmed what I had already suspected—Jesse wasn't giving up the hunt. Rather than see this as a reason to distance myself from Mia, my protective instincts only intensified. The urge to go to her immediately, to ensure her safety personally, pulled at me like a physical force.

There were more questions about Mia. I answered the ones I felt I had to, but kept things a little vague. I was sure I could trust everyone here, but it was smart to take some precautions. I didn’t tell them that she was right here, above our heads.

As we concluded the final items on our agenda, I glanced at Tyson, finding his steady gaze already fixed on me. The slight tilt of his head communicated volumes: he understood more than I'd admitted. We both recognized that what began as a simple act of protection had become something far more complicated—and potentially dangerous for everyone involved.

"That's all for tonight," I announced, closing the leather portfolio in front of me with finality. "Remember, extra patrols start tonight. I want reports each morning."

The scrape of chairs signaled the end of formal business. Members broke into smaller groups, conversations swirling around the room as they processed the meeting's implications. I remained seated, exchanging quiet words with Thor about patrol schedules while gathering my papers.

"Glad you told them, Prez?" Thor asked under his breath, his voice too low for others to hear.

I hesitated, weighing options. "Not sure. I think you two are right, keeping secrets doesn’t work."

I gathered the surveillance photos, slipping them into my inner jacket pocket. Jesse's face stared up at me from the top image, his hollow eyes and manic expression a reminder of the very real danger hunting the woman upstairs.

I needed to check on Mia. The urgency of that need troubled me almost as much as the threat the Serpents posed.

***

The Friday night crowd packed the tavern below, their laughter and conversation merging with the band's cover of an old Johnny Cash song. I balanced the food tray in one hand, my knuckles rapping softly against Mia's door. A few days of safety had changed her—not dramatically, not completely—but enough that I noticed the difference each time I saw her.

I heard movement inside—the light pad of bare feet, a soft whisper to Diesel, the slide of the chain lock. The door opened just enough for Mia to verify it was me before swinging wider.

"You didn't come down for dinner," I explained, offering the tray. "Thought you might be hungry."

Her eyes widened at the plate of still-steaming food—the Tavern’s infamous chili, cornbread on the side, and apple pie. The smell filled the small room, rich and homey.

"Thank you," Mia said, her voice soft but steadier than it had been days earlier.

She took the tray, and that's when I noticed the changes most clearly. Her face had a touch more color, the hollow look beneath her cheekbones less pronounced. Her hands didn't tremble constantly now, though she still moved with the hypervigilance of someone accustomed to unwelcome surprises. Most noticeable was the change in her eyes—still wary, still haunted, but the raw panic had receded, replaced by something cautiously hopeful.

Her smile caught me off-guard—genuine and unguarded, though it faded quickly as she glanced nervously down the hallway behind me. Old habits. I'd seen it before in people who'd lived too long with danger—the inability to fully believe in safety, to trust that the threat had truly passed.

Diesel, though, had no such reservations. The dog greeted me with considerably more enthusiasm than he had when they'd first arrived, his tail wagging as he sniffed eagerly at the tray Mia carried to the small table by the window. His coat looked better—less dull, more shine—and he moved with the energy of an animal who'd had several good meals in a row.

I bent down to scratch his ears, feeling the solid warmth of him pressing against my leg. "You're looking better, buddy," I murmured, noting how the dog's ribs no longer protruded sharply beneath my fingers.

"He's finally sleeping through the night," Mia said, her voice warming when she spoke about her companion. "Not jumping at every sound."

I straightened, giving the dog a final pat. "That makes one of you at least," I observed quietly.

Mia didn't deny it, her slight shrug acknowledging the truth. The dark circles under her eyes told their own story—sleep still came reluctantly, haunted by whatever demons Jesse Malone had planted in her mind.

As she set the tray down, I noticed her sketchbook open on the table – pages filled with detailed drawings I hadn't seen before. Landscapes, primarily—mountain vistas, forests, a rushing stream rendered with surprising skill. Another page showed Diesel in various poses, captured with obvious affection.

"These are good," I commented, careful not to touch the pages. Artists could be possessive about their work—I'd learned that lesson from Lena years ago.

Mia quickly moved to close the book, a flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. The sketchbook disappeared beneath a worn paperback novel.

"Just something to pass the time," she explained, though I caught the pride behind her dismissal. "Not much else to do up here."

"Do you have enough supplies?" I inquired, studying her face. "For drawing, I mean."

She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture I'd noticed before. "Just a few pencils I had in my car. Nothing fancy."

"I could bring you some things," I offered. "If you're interested."

Mia's eyes lit up momentarily before caution reasserted itself. "That's not necessary. You've already done so much."

The subtext was clear: she didn't want to owe me more than she already did. Another habit born from hard experience. People who've had kindness weaponized against them learn to count every favor as a potential debt.

Our conversation shifted to safer topics as she began to eat—Diesel's recovery, the weather forecast calling for early snow, and the renovations I was planning for the unused part of the building. Simple, neutral subjects that allowed her to relax incrementally, bite by bite.

Throughout our talk, I observed subtle signs of her Little tendencies emerging when she felt momentarily secure. The way she tucked her feet beneath her on the chair, childlike and comfortable. How her voice rose slightly when discussing things that excited her—like the prospect of fresh art supplies or Diesel's improving health. Most revealing was how she unconsciously held her mug of tea with both hands, fingers wrapped around the ceramic like a child might, seeking comfort as much as hydration.

Each glimpse of her true self only deepened my suspicion that she was naturally drawn to a caregiver dynamic, though she clearly fought to suppress these inclinations. The effort it took was visible—the way she'd catch herself, straighten her posture, lower her voice back to its more guarded register.

When she accidentally dropped her fork, the clatter against the plate seemed unnaturally loud in the small room. Her reaction was instantaneous and heartbreaking—a full-body flinch, eyes darting to my face to gauge my response, muscles tensing as if preparing for anger or worse.

"It's just a fork, Little One," I said, the endearment slipping out before I could catch it. My voice had dropped naturally into the firm, calming tone I used when soothing fears or setting boundaries. "No harm done."

I bent to retrieve the utensil, deliberately making my movements slow and predictable. When I handed her a clean fork from the tray, our fingers brushed briefly. The slight relaxation in her shoulders told me everything – I recognized her instinctual response to nurturing authority.

"Sorry," she murmured, the word automatic, ingrained.

"Nothing to apologize for," I countered, keeping my tone gentle but firm. "Accidents happen."

She nodded, but the tension had returned to her posture—not fear of me, precisely, but awareness of the dynamic shift between us, the way my tone had changed, the name I'd used.

Diesel sensed her unease, padding over to press his head against her leg. She scratched behind his ears absently, the familiar contact visibly grounding her. The dog watched me with intelligent eyes, not hostile but assessing—still her protector, despite his growing comfort with my presence.

I sat back in my chair, deliberately creating space, giving her room to breathe. The sounds from the tavern below provided background to the silence that settled between us.

Mia finished her meal methodically, her earlier enjoyment dimmed by self-consciousness. I should have left then, maintained the boundaries I'd set for myself when I'd first brought her to this room. Professional. Protective but distant. Safe.

Instead, I found myself watching the methodical movement of her hands, the curve of her neck as she bent over her plate, the way her dark lashes cast shadows on her cheeks in the lamplight. Small details that I had no business noticing, no right to catalog and store away.

Sitting across from her, witnessing both her fragility and her determination, I recognized the dangerous territory we were approaching.

I should go. Right now.

I gathered my empty mug, preparing to leave Mia to finish her meal in peace. But as I stood, her voice stopped me—soft but deliberate, determination threading through her words like steel wire through velvet.

"The other night, and today, you called me 'Little One.'"

Her statement hung in the air between us, a fragile, dangerous thing. I set my mug down carefully, buying seconds to compose my response. She watched me with those wide, dark eyes that missed nothing, one hand absently stroking Diesel's head.

"Why did you call me that?"

The question was direct, unavoidable. I could have deflected, could have brushed it off as a meaningless nickname, but something in her expression—a vulnerable curiosity—demanded honesty.

"It seemed to fit," I answered simply, watching her reaction. "Was I wrong?"

Mia's fingers stilled against Diesel's fur. The dog looked up at her, sensing the shift in her energy. Her eyes widened slightly as her free hand moved to fidget with the hem of her oversized shirt—a nervous habit I'd noticed before.

"No, it's just—" she faltered, gathering her courage. A small breath, then she continued. "In Coldwater, with Jesse . . . I had some things. Stuffed animals. Coloring books. A blanket I'd had since I was little."

She swallowed hard, eyes dropping to her lap. "He found them one day when I was at work. When I got home, he'd cut them all to pieces. Said only pathetic children needed comfort objects. Said he wasn't dating a fucking baby."

The words spilled out flatly, as if she'd divorced herself from the emotion behind them. But I caught the slight tremor in her voice, the way her shoulders curved inward protectively.

Rage flared hot in my chest—not at her vulnerability, but at Jesse's deliberate cruelty. I'd known he was a sadistic bastard; this only confirmed it. Destroying something harmless that brought her comfort—it was the act of a man who enjoyed causing pain.

"There's nothing wrong with finding comfort where you can," I said, keeping my voice deliberately gentle yet firm—the same tone I'd used moments ago when she dropped the fork. "This world is hard enough without denying yourself small joys or safe spaces. Especially if sometimes you like to be Little."

Mia glanced up, studying my face as if searching for judgment and finding none. The relief in her expression was palpable, her shoulders dropping slightly from their defensive hunch.

"How did you know?" she whispered. "I try so hard to hide it."

I considered how much to reveal of my own understanding and preferences. This conversation was veering into deeply personal territory—dangerous for both of us given our circumstances. Yet the need for honesty outweighed caution.

"I recognized something I've seen before," I answered carefully. "Certain mannerisms. The way you hold your cup with both hands. How your voice changes when you're relaxed. Small things most people wouldn't notice."

I paused, then added more quietly, "And I recognized it because I've seen it in others I've cared for."

Understanding dawned in her expression, followed by disbelief and cautious hope. She set her fork down and pushed her chair back, standing slowly. The movement closed some of the distance between us—not threateningly, but with deliberate purpose.

"Are you saying you're a—" she couldn't quite form the word, the concept too precious to risk misunderstanding. Her eyes searched mine, looking for confirmation or denial.

I nodded once, my voice lowering. "A Daddy Dom? Yes."

The air between us changed, charged with new awareness. The background noise from the tavern seemed to fade, the small room suddenly feeling both too large and not large enough. Mia took another small step closer, close enough that I could smell the soap I'd provided—something generic from the store, nothing special, yet on her it smelled like something I couldn't name but desperately wanted.

"I thought I was broken," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Jesse said no real man would want a woman who acts like a child."

"Jesse Malone," I said firmly, "is a small, cruel man who builds himself up by tearing others down. What exists between a Little and her Daddy is something he could never understand."

Her eyes lit with something between relief and wonder. "You really don't think it's weird or wrong?"

"No." The simplicity of my answer seemed to unlock something in her. She moved closer still, until just inches separated us. “Of course it’s not wrong.”

Warning bells rang in my mind—this was moving too fast; she was vulnerable, possibly confusing gratitude with attraction; I had responsibilities to my club that complicated everything. But the pounding of my pulse drowned them out as Mia tilted her face up to mine, her lips parting slightly.

I felt myself leaning down, drawn by an attraction I had long tried to deny. Our breath mingled, warm and intimate. Her eyes drifted closed, dark lashes fanning against her cheeks. The moment stretched, balanced on a knife's edge of desire and restraint.

At the very last moment, sanity prevailed. I stepped back, creating space between us. The cool air rushed in, breaking the spell that had nearly consumed us both.

"This isn't a good idea," I said, my voice rougher than intended. I cleared my throat, trying to recapture my usual control. "You're under my protection. That creates a power imbalance."

I watched the expression on her face fall—embarrassment and rejection washing over her features. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly looking smaller, more vulnerable. The sight twisted something in my chest.

"It's not that I don't want to," I clarified, needing her to understand. "But timing matters. Circumstances matter."

Mia nodded stiffly, not meeting my eyes. "I understand. I'm sorry for misreading . . ."

I shook my head, cutting her off gently. "You didn't misread anything. That's the problem."

Her eyes lifted to mine then, confusion and hope warring in their depths. "What do you mean?"

I ran a hand through my hair, struggling to articulate feelings I hadn't fully processed myself. "I mean that under different circumstances—if you weren't running from the Serpents, if I wasn't the one providing your safety—this conversation would be going very differently."

The admission cost me something—a piece of the armor I'd built around myself over years of keeping people at arm's length. Relationships complicated things. In my position, complications could be deadly.

"So it's not because I'm . . ." She gestured vaguely at herself, encompassing everything from her borrowed clothes to her Little tendencies.

"God, no." The vehemence in my voice surprised us both. "If anything, that's what makes this harder. You're exactly the kind of woman I—" I cut myself off, realizing I was saying too much.

Some of the tension left her shoulders, replaced by something like understanding. She took a deliberate step back, creating more distance between us—a gift of space and time that I recognized and appreciated.

"I'm not used to men showing restraint," she said quietly. "It's . . . new."

The simple statement revealed volumes about her past, about what she'd come to expect from men.

"You deserve better than what you've known," I told her, meaning every word. "Better than Jesse. Better than someone taking advantage of your vulnerability."

Better than me, a voice whispered in my mind. Better than a man whose life was entangled with violence and illegal activities, whose enemies would use her to get to him without hesitation.

Mia studied me for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. "What if I don't want restraint?" she asked finally. "What if I know exactly what I'm asking for?"

The question cut through my carefully constructed reasoning, exposing the truth we both recognized—this wasn't just about protecting her from making a mistake born of gratitude or fear. It was about protecting myself from feelings I wasn't prepared to confront.

"Then we have that conversation when you're not dependent on me for safety," I answered honestly. "When you have real choices, not just the ones circumstance has forced on you."

She nodded slowly, a small smile touching her lips. "That's a very Daddy answer."

Despite everything, I found myself chuckling. "Maybe so."

The tension between us eased, transforming into something more comfortable—understanding rather than frustration, possibility rather than denial. I moved toward the door, knowing I needed to leave before my resolve weakened further.

"Get some rest," I said, my hand finding the doorknob. "We can talk more tomorrow."

I forced myself to turn the handle, opening the door just enough to step through. One foot in the hallway, one still in her room—a physical manifestation of my divided self.

"Duke?"

Her voice stopped me short—small and achingly vulnerable in a way that twisted something deep in my chest. I turned to find her standing in the center of the room, illuminated by the soft lamplight. She'd wrapped her arms around herself, not defensive but self-comforting, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. The sight of her struck me anew—how she could look both strong and fragile simultaneously, a contradiction that pulled at every protective instinct I possessed.

"Thank you," she said simply. "For making me feel safe."

The simple sincerity in her words cut through my defenses like they were nothing.

"For making us feel safe," she amended, glancing toward Diesel, who slept peacefully on his bed in the corner. The dog hadn't stirred during our almost-kiss or the tense conversation that followed—a testament to how comfortable he'd become in this space, how much he trusted that no threat would reach them here.

I nodded, momentarily lost for words. Her gratitude was both deserved and undeserved—I had provided safety, yes, but with complications neither of us had anticipated.

My motives weren't as pure as they should have been. Not anymore.