He didn’t wait for a reply. He walked me past the main building—big, low-slung, with a wrap-around porch and windows painted a blinding white. The sun was at its peak now, no shadows left to hide in. Every inch of the property screamed order and security, but there were splashes of comfort here and there: a wind chime, a porch swing, an old Radio Flyer wagon tipped over on the lawn.
The living areas were on the second floor of the large pack house. The hallway smelled like fresh paint and carpet. Jess’s door was easy to spot—it had a battered Marine Corps sticker next to the peephole, and a pair of muddy boots lined up perfectly against the jamb.
A duffel bag leaned against the threshold, stuffed to bursting. Jess picked it up in one hand, unlocked the door with the other, and stepped aside for me to enter.
I hesitated, then went in.
The place was spotless—minimal, almost severe, but not unfriendly. The living room had a gray sectional, a wall-sized TV, and a small kitchen tucked behind a peninsula bar. The appliances gleamed. The only decoration was a single framed photo on the counter: Jess and Bronc, both in uniform, both with arms around each other and shit-eating grins.
Jess set the duffel on the sectional and pointed down the hall. “Bedroom’s through there. Bathroom’s attached. You can… do what you need. I’ll get you some towels.”
He left without another word. I listened to his footsteps fade, then collapse into the quiet.
I took a minute just to stand there, hands dangling, head empty. My heart still hadn’t slowed, and my skin still felt wrong. But at least here, I could close the door and pretend.
I found the bedroom. King bed, fluffy comforter, a mountain of pillows that all matched. There was a row of hooks on the wall for jackets, and a heavy safe built into the closet. The only personal item was a battered copy of “Lonesome Dove” on the nightstand.
The bathroom was gleaming white tile, the shower big enough for three. There were three bottles of soap lined up—no flowery scents, just plain blue gel and a bottle of Head & Shoulders. I almost laughed.
I closed the bathroom door, locked it, and let the silence take me apart piece by piece. The tile was freezing under my feet, but I barely felt it. I stripped off my t-shirt dress, peeled away the old underwear, and looked at myself in the mirror. The bruises were yellowing out. My hair was a tangled mess.
A knock at the door made me jump.
“Harper?” Jess’s voice, awkward and careful. “I brought some stuff that Maddie dropped by. You probably don’t want to use my cheap soap.”
I yanked the towel around me and cracked the door. Jess stood there, eyes on the floor, holding a canvas tote stuffed with bottles and a hairbrush and what looked like half the personal care aisle from Target. He set it on the counter without looking at me.
“Thank you,” I whispered, voice barely audible.
He nodded, jaw flexing. “Take your time. I’ll be in the living room.” Then he vanished.
I closed the door again, pressed my back to it, and slid to the floor. My towel bunched around my waist, and I let my knees draw up to my chest. That’s when it hit me—no warning, no gentle ramp up. Just a flood, like someone had torn open a dam.
I sobbed. Not dainty, pretty tears, but a full-body, retching howl that left my throat raw and my stomach knotted. I pressed my fists into my eyes, trying to block it out, but the crying only got worse. I wept for every moment in Eyrie, for every night I’d spent wishing for rescue, for every piece of myself I’d bartered just to stay alive. I cried for Jess, for what I’d done to him, for what he’d just done for me.
When the tears finally ran dry, I sat there in the half-light, chest heaving, head spinning. I let myself lean into the sadness, the fear, the shame. I let it hurt.
Then, slowly, I stood up.
I set the new toiletries on the edge of the sink and picked up the brush, running my fingers over the bristles. I uncapped the bottle of real shampoo and sniffed it—jasmine and lemon, nothing like what I used at the club. It was perfumed like Eyrie.Thiswas the smell of regular life, the smell of people who weren’t constantly running from the past.
My hands still shook as I turned the shower on, as hot as I could stand. The room filled with steam in seconds. I stepped in, closed my eyes, and let the water carry everything away.
When I was done, I wrapped myself in the fresh towel and stood there, staring at my reflection.
I was still a mess. But I was alive. And I’d made it this far.
That would have to be enough for today.
Chapter 11
Arsenal
Istood outside my bathroom, a grown man with a silver star and several combat tours, and listened to Harper fall apart on the other side of a three-panel wood door. The tile on the walls amplified every sound—the retch, the wet hiccup, the way her knuckles must be white on the towel as she tried to stitch herself back together. I could see the veins on my own wrists, blue and raised and angry, my hands shaking with the urge to rip the door off its hinges, gather her up, and force the universe to apologize for what it had done to her.
My wolf howled at me, every instinct in my body boiling down to a single command: go to her, hold her, don’t let go untilthe air in her lungs was steady and the whites of her eyes were no longer visible. My human side said nothing. It just pulled its own tattooed arms tighter around my chest and reminded me that five years ago, she’d chosen to walk away. It reminded me that I’d spent half a decade learning to close doors and build new ones out of steel and willpower.
So I stood there, hands jammed into the pockets of my sweats, jaw working until I tasted blood at the hinge. If I opened the door, I knew what would happen: I’d fall to my knees, beg her to tell me it wasn’t real, and then end up drowning in the same helplessness that had nearly gotten me killed a dozen times over in some shit-smeared part of the world.
