She doesn't.
Because she knows I'm right even if she won't admit it.
I hand her the helmet I keep strapped to the bike—the one I bought three months ago after the second time I had to come get her, the one I tell myself is just practical but is really because some part of me always knew I'd be here again.
She takes it without a word, fumbles with the strap.
Her hands are shaking.
I reach out, and fasten it for her.
Our eyes meet.
This close I can see the cracks in her armor—the exhaustion, the pain, the desperate need to feel anything other than worthless.
"I'm not the enemy," I tell her quietly.
"Then what are you?"
Everything you don't see.
Everything you won't let yourself want.
"Someone who gives a shit," I say instead.
I swing my leg over the bike, kick it to life.
The engine rumbles between my thighs, familiar and steady.
Ingrid hesitates.
Then she climbs on behind me, her body pressing against my back, her arms wrapping around my waist.
She's warm despite the humidity.
Soft.
Real.
Mine, that voice whispers again.
I ignore it.
The ride back to the clubhouse is torture.
Every shift of her body against mine.
Every breath I feel through my cut.
Every moment of awareness that Fenrir's daughter is wrapped around me, trusting me to get her home safe, and all I can think about is how badly I want to pull over and kiss her until she forgets every man who came before me.
But she's drunk.
Vulnerable.
This isn't the time.
Except when we pull through the compound gates, past the guard shack where the prospect on duty waves us through without question, Ingrid's grip on me tightens.
