"And the Brotherhood boy?"
My cheeks warm. "Dad?—"
"I'm not blind, Dalla. And I'm not deaf, either." His mouth twitches. "None of us are, apparently."
I want to die.
I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
"Can we please not talk about this?"
"We don't have to talk about it. But I need to know—is he good to you? Does he treat you right?"
"Yes." The answer comes without hesitation. "He does."
My father nods slowly.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but then movement catches his eye—RJ coming back through the porch door.
Their eyes meet across the room.
I watch my father's expression harden into something cold and assessing.
The MC president evaluating a threat.
He holds RJ's gaze for a long, weighted moment—a death glare that would make lesser men flinch.
RJ doesn't flinch.
He meets my father's stare head-on, chin lifted, shoulders squared.
Not aggressive, but not backing down either.
The silent standoff stretches for what feels like an eternity.
Then my father nods once—short, sharp, acknowledging—and turns back to me. "Friday dinner. Your mother expects you both."
He's gone before I can respond.
RJ crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside me. "Did your father just invite me to family dinner?"
"I think he did."
"Huh." He considers this. "He also looked like he wanted to gut me."
"But he didn't say anything."
"No. He didn't." RJ's mouth curves slightly. "Progress."
I lean into him, and his arm comes around me automatically. "He knows he can't tell you to leave. You're under orders from the Mackenzies."
"I wouldn't leave even if I wasn't." His fingers trace patterns on my shoulder. "Not unless you told me to go."
We sit like that for a while, comfortable.
But I can feel the tension in him—a coiled energy that wasn't there before.
He's distracted, I realize.
