"For me?"
"Yes. And for what this means for the club if something goes wrong." He turns to face me. "But mostly, I'm concerned about what happens after. Where you'll go, how you'll stay safe."
"I've been thinking about that too." I trace patterns on the bedspread between us. "Maybe I could stay in Pine Haven. Start over there, for real this time."
His eyes soften. "You'd want that? Even after everything that's happened?"
"The bookstore was starting to feel like home, before it all fell apart." I hesitate, then add, "And there's someone there I'd like to get to know better."
A smile curves his lips. "I think that could be arranged."
"Even with your club obligations? Your prospect status?"
"We'll figure it out." His hand finds mine on the bedspread. "One step at a time, remember?"
I nod, feeling calmer than I have all day. Whatever happens tomorrow, at least I have this moment. This connection that formed so unexpectedly in the midst of danger.
"One step at a time," I repeat, closing my eyes.
The last thing I feel before drifting into sleep is Knight's hand holding mine, steady and strong—a promise of protection that goes beyond this mission, beyond the trial.
A promise of something that might just be worth fighting for.
Chapter 11 - Knight
Days later
I check my watch for the third time in five minutes. The jury has been deliberating for less than two hours, unusually quick for a case of this magnitude. Could be good, could be bad. No way to know until they return to the courtroom.
The courthouse hallway bustles with activity. Attorneys conferring in hushed tones, journalists hovering for any scrap of information, uniformed officers maintaining security. Through it all, I maintain my position against the wall, near the courtroom doors but not so close as to draw attention.
My brothers are stationed strategically throughout the building: Blade by the main entrance, Viper near the employee exit, Dice circling the perimeter outside. We've maintained this formation for two days now, rotating positions, always keeping Beth in our sights.
Two days. It feels like a lifetime since we arrived in Denver.
Beth's testimony yesterday was nothing short of remarkable. She sat on that witness stand for six grueling hours, her voice steady as she recounted every detail of the conversation she'd overheard between Judge Harmon, Commissioner Reynolds, and Mayor Blackwell. When they played the recording, the damning evidence she'd had the presence of mind to capture, even the skeptical jurors leaned forward in their seats.
The defense attorney tried everything to discredit her: from attacking her memory to her motives, and her character. Through it all, Beth remained composed, answering each question with dignity. I've seen hardened soldiers crack under less pressure.
A ripple of movement draws my attention. The bailiff emerges from a side door, speaking briefly to the court clerk. They nod to each other, and the clerk disappears back into the courtroom.
They're ready.
I pull out my burner phone, sending the pre-arranged signal to my brothers: *Jury returning. All positions alert.*
Within seconds, three acknowledgments ping back. We're ready too.
The courtroom doors open, and people begin filing in. I spot Beth near the front, sitting beside the federal prosecutor. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands clasp tightly in her lap.
I want nothing more than to go to her, but my cover as a courthouse security consultant only gets me so far. Instead, I slip into the back of the courtroom just as the bailiff calls for all to rise.
The judge enters. Not Harmon, who's one of the defendants, but a stern-faced woman brought in from another district to ensure impartiality. She takes her seat, instructs everyone else to be seated, and addresses the jury foreman.
"Has the jury reached a verdict?" she asks.
"We have, Your Honor," the foreman replies, standing.
The tension in the room is palpable as the bailiff collects the verdict forms and delivers them to the judge. She reviews them silently, her expression giving nothing away.
