Page 18 of Held-

“Not on Tuesdays,” he says with that maddening, almost-smile. “We save the federal crimes for weekends.”

I roll my eyes, but I'm fighting a smile of my own. “You're not going to tell me, are you?”

“Tell you what?”

“What your club actually does. The illegal parts.”

He turns to face me fully, and suddenly the space between us feels much smaller. “You really want to know?”

There's something in his voice—a warning, maybe, or a test. Like he's daring me to ask for details about a world I'm not equipped to handle. The smart thing would be to laugh it off, change the subject, to keep things light.

Instead, I nod.

“We protect people,” he says simply. “Sometimes that means bending rules. Sometimes it means breaking them completely.”

“What kind of people?”

“The kind the system fails. Women running from abusive husbands who can't get protection from the cops. Kids aging out of foster care with nowhere to go. People who get caught between the wrong elements and need muscle to even the odds.”

I study his face, looking for signs that he's putting me on. But his expression is completely serious.

“Is that how you ended up one?” The question comes out before I can stop it. I didn’t know much about him, outside of the town rumor mill and what Jillian had mentioned in passing when he came to stay with her. Back then, she’d asked for a lot of prayers for her nephew.

Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or just the memory of it. He's quiet for a long moment, staring out at the water like it holds answers he's not sure he wants to share.

“Something like that. My mom had a live-in boyfriend. Real piece of shit who liked to use his fists when he'd been drinking. Which was most nights.”

My chest tightens. “Brayden?—”

“One night he went too far,” he continues, not looking at me. “Put her in the hospital. When she got out, she was too scared to press charges. Said he'd kill us both if she tried.” He picks up his own stone, rolling it between his palms. “So I handled it myself.”

“What did you do?”

He turns to look at me then, and there’s something in his expression that makes my pulse skip. Something that reminds me exactly who I’m sitting with. “Let’s just say he never laid a hand on anyone again.”

I should be horrified. Should make some excuse and ask him to take me back to town immediately. Instead, I find myself asking, “How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

Jesus. Fifteen years old and already taking justice into his own hands. “Is that when you got arrested?”

“First time, yeah. Not the last.” He tosses the stone into the water with more force than necessary. “Spent a year in juvie. When I got out, she'd already moved on to a new guy. Told me I was too much trouble to keep around and dumped me on my aunt and her rich husband.”

The casual way he says it—like being abandoned by your own mother is just another Tuesday—makes my heart ache for the boy he was. Fifteen and already carrying the weight of protecting someone who wouldn't even fight to keep him.

“I'm sorry,” I say, and mean it.

He shrugs, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. “Ancient history. Point is, Jillian was the first person who didn't look at me like I was broken goods. She took me in like her ownand gave me a real family.” His mouth curves into a soft smile that transforms his entire face. “She never gave up on me.”

“She's a good woman.”

“The best.” He stands suddenly, brushing dirt from his jeans. “She's also the reason I came back to help with the toy drive.” He pauses, sighs, and then extends a hand down to help me up. “I’m glad she called us.” He trails off like he’s intentionally leaving out the rest of the sentence.

“Me too,” I say, taking his hand. The touch sends a current through me that I try to ignore. His palm is warm and callused, his grip firm but gentle as he pulls me to my feet. I expect him to let go once I'm standing, but he doesn't—not right away. Our hands remain connected for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and when he finally releases me, I feel the absence like a physical thing.

“We should get back,” he says, glancing at the sky. “I've got club business to handle, and your father is probably organizing a search party by now.”

“Let them search.” The words come out before I can stop them, surprising us both. “I mean—I don't care what they think. Not anymore.”