She sips the scotch, doesn't flinch at the burn. "And what do you get out of this arrangement?"
"What do you mean?"
"Men don't protect women for free. Especially not Delano men. So what's your price, Blake? What are you expecting in return for keeping me alive?"
The question's fair. Brutal, but fair.
I could tell her the truth, that I'm doing this because six years ago I burned down a warehouse full of guilt, and it wasn't nearly enough. That every time I close my eyes, I see the girls I saved and the ones I didn't. That protecting her isn't about price, payment, or transaction.
It's about penance.
It’s about saving my dark soul.
But that's too much truth for a woman I met three hours ago. Too raw. Too real.
So I give her something simpler.
"I expect you to survive," I say. "And when this is over, when you're standing on top of the Kingsley empire with all the power the name affords you, I expect you to remember who helped you get there."
"That's it? No specific demands? No favors owed?"
"I don't deal in favors. They're just debts with prettier names."
"Then what do you deal in?"
"Results."
She sets down her glass, moves closer. Not seductive, but more like she’s testing me. The way you test ice before stepping on it is by checking for cracks, for weight tolerance, and for the breaking point. That’s what she’s doing.
"You keep saying that," she murmurs. "Results. Like it means something specific."
"It does."
"Then tell me." Another step. Close enough now that I can smell her perfume more deeply. It’s something expensive with subtle amber notes that probably has a French name I can't pronounce. "What result are you looking for, Blake? What outcome makes all of this worth it?"
The honest answer is complicated, twisted up in family obligation and the particular kind of rage that comes from watching the world take things from people who can't fight back.
The simple answer is standing three feet away, wearing a very tasteful fuck-me-please dress, and looking at me like I'm either her salvation or her ruin.
Maybe both.
"I want you free," I say quietly. "Free from Silas, from the Kingsleys, from every bastard in this town who thinks they own you. I want you to choose your own ending instead of having it chosen for you."
"Why?"
"Because someone should."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She studies my face like she's reading a language she's still learning. Looking for the lie, the angle, the hidden cost. She won't find it. This is the one true thing I've said all night.
"Okay," she finally says. "I'll stay. But I have conditions."
"Of course you do."
"First, I need access to everything Talia finds. No filtering information or protecting me from ugly truths. If I'm fighting for this inheritance, I need to know exactly what I'm fighting for."
