"I think you're brave as hell," I interrupt, and mean it. "Most people would've handed over whatever was in that bag and counted themselves lucky to escape with all their parts intact."
Her eyes widen slightly at my praise, like she's not used to hearing it. "It's just... this bag has things that can't be replaced. Not valuable to anyone else, but they're all I have left of her."
I don't ask who 'her' is. The pain in those blue eyes tells me enough. Recent loss, still raw and bleeding. The kind of grief that makes people do desperate things, like travel to small towns in the middle of the night carrying irreplaceable memories.
"I understand," I say quietly. "Some things are worth fighting for."
Most people look at me and see exactly what I am: dangerous, violent, someone to fear and avoid. This woman looks at me like she's trying to figure out who I am underneath all the leather and attitude.
"I'm Luna," she says finally.
"King." I don't offer my real name. In Blackwater Falls, I've been King for so long that Noah Bradley feels like someone I used to know.
"King," she repeats, testing the name. "Like the chess piece?"
"Like the guy who rules this particular kingdom." I nod toward the empty streets around us. "What brings you to Blackwater Falls, Luna? Most people passing through don't stick around long enough to get mugged."
She shifts the bag to one arm, finally relaxing enough to let it hang naturally instead of clutching it like armor. "I inherited my grandmother's house here. I just got off the bus about an hour ago. I came to... figure out what to do with it."
Fresh off the bus. That explains why she doesn't know to avoid the station after dark, doesn't understand that carrying anything worth protecting in this part of town after midnight is like painting a target on your back.
"Old Victorian on the edge of town? White with the wraparound porch?"
"You know it?"
Everyone in Blackwater Falls knows that house. It's been empty for three years, ever since old Mrs. Hartwell died, and it's got a reputation for being haunted. Not that I believe in ghosts, but the place has a way of making people nervous after dark.
"Your grandmother was a good woman," I tell her. "Nurse, right? She used to patch up my boys when they came off their bikes toohard. Never asked questions, never judged. Just fixed what was broken and sent them on their way."
Luna's face softens, and for a moment the pain in her eyes transforms into something warmer. "That sounds like her. She always said everyone deserves care, especially the ones who think they don't. I'm a nurse too, actually. Following in her footsteps."
Mrs. Hartwell had been one of the few people in this town who treated the Savage Riders like human beings instead of rabid dogs. When Rage's kid got sick a few years ago, she's the one who recommended a specialist in the city and refused payment for her consultation.
"She was right about that," I say. "You planning on staying long?"
"I don't know yet." Luna looks around at the empty streets, the bus station's flickering neon sign, the general air of decay that clings to this part of town like morning fog. "I haven't really had a chance to see much of anything yet. Just got here and then... this happened."
That means tomorrow she'll walk down Main Street and see the boarded-up shops, the empty lots where businesses used to thrive, the general sense that hope left town on the last freight train. She'll understand why most people don't stay in Blackwater Falls unless they don't have a choice.
"It's got its charm," I say instead. "You just have to know where to look."
She tilts her head. "And you'd know where to look?"
"I know every inch of this town. Every shadow, every secret, every story the locals pretend never happened." I pause, considering. "Where are you staying tonight?"
"I was hoping to get the keys to the house and crash there, but the lawyer's office is closed until morning. I guess I'll find a motel."
Over my dead body. The only motel in Blackwater Falls is a flophouse that rents rooms by the hour, and it's exactly the kind of place where a woman traveling alone ends up as a statistic.
"No motels," I say firmly. "Not safe for someone like you."
Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Someone like me?"
"Someone who doesn't know the rules yet." I pull out my phone and scroll through contacts until I find what I'm looking for. "Sally runs a bed-and-breakfast on Oak Street. Clean sheets, good locks, and she makes breakfast that'll spoil you for life."
"I can't afford—"
"It's handled." I hit send on the text, knowing Sally will have a room ready within ten minutes. She owes me a favor anyway, ever since I convinced her ex-husband that relocating to another state was in his best interest.
