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He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

Just breathed out and settled again, like he knew. Like he’d decided I wasn’t a threat in this moment.

That was the thing that got me.

He should hate me.

He should be terrified.

He should be looking for an exit.

Instead, he’d been in my kitchen, making bread like he was trying to build a life out of flour and heat and routine.

And now he was asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, smelling like my room.

If Rowan could scent him like this, he’d lose his mind.

If my men could see him like this, they’d draw conclusions I didn’t have time to correct.

And if I stayed here any longer, I was going to keep making decisions that weren’t clean.

I slid my hand away slowly. Kellan didn’t wake. He didn’t even stir. The trust of it hit like a fist.

I sat up, careful. The room was cold at the edges, the air creeping in under the curtains. I grabbed my jeans off the floor and pulled them on without turning on a light.

I looked back at him once.

He was on his side, face half-buried in my pillow, my shirt bunched up at his waist. His lashes rested dark against his cheeks, and his mouth was slightly open like he’d forgotten to keep his guard up.

I hated how much I wanted to stay.

I hated it more that a part of me already had.

I grabbed my cut from the chair and left the room.

The hallway was quiet, but it wasn’t silent. The compound never slept fully. There was always a man on rotation, always someone half-awake, listening.

I moved like I belonged, because I did.

Because this place was mine.

And because I couldn’t afford to look like anything else.

Downstairs, I caught movement near the garage. A prospect on rotation, alert and sharp, with a mug of coffee in hand like it was an IV drip. He straightened when he saw me.

“Prez.”

I nodded once. “Anything?”

He hesitated. “Nah. Quiet.”

Quiet wasn’t comfort. Quiet was suspicious.

I walked past him, straight to the office, and shut the door behind me.

The second I sat down, the whole day caught up in one sharp wave.