"How can you possibly know that?"
Because when she looked at me, I saw straight through to her soul, and it's beautiful and broken and pure despite whatever hell she's survived. Because she carries herself like someone who's been knocked down repeatedly but keeps getting back up. Because she apologized for being trouble when all she'd done was ask for help.
"I just know."
Steel sighs, scrubbing a hand over his graying beard. "You're not thinking with your head, brother."
Maybe not. But for the first time in a long time, I'm thinking with something other than cold calculation. And it feels like waking up from a long sleep.
"I'm thinking just fine."
"Are you? Because from where I sit, it looks like our VP just claimed some rando in front of the entire club. You know what that means? What kind of target that puts on her back if word gets out?"
The truth of that hits me like a punch to the gut. By marking her as under my protection, I've painted a target on her that could draw enemies I've made over two decades of club business. The Broken Skulls would love to get their hands on someone I care about. So would half a dozen other organizations I've fucked over in service to this club.
But the alternative—letting her walk away vulnerable and alone—is unacceptable.
"Then we keep word from getting out."
Steel stares at me for a long time. Finally, he shakes his head and we momentarily drop our President/Vice President roles and become Blake and Rhett, lifelong friends. "Twenty-one years I've known you, brother. Never seen you lose your head over a woman. You sure you want to go down this road?"
I think about her standing there soaked and shivering, apologizing for existing. I think about the way she flinched from Tank's touch and the exhaustion carved into her delicate features. I think about her car and how she's probably been scraping by on nothing for a long time.
"I'm sure."
He nods slowly. "All right. But this is your call, your responsibility. Anything goes sideways, it's on you."
"Understood."
I leave Steel's office and make my way through the clubhouse, past my brothers. The weight of what I've just committed to settles on my shoulders, but instead of feeling burdened, I feel like for the first time in years, I'm doing something that matters beyond club. Something forme.
When I reach my room, I ease the door open. She's curled up in my bed like she belongs there, wearing an oversized t-shirt that swallows her small frame. Her dark hair fans across my pillow, and in sleep, the stress lines around her eyes have smoothed away. She looks impossibly young, impossibly fragile.
In my bed. In my fucking bed.
The possessive satisfaction that floods through me is so intense it's almost painful. This is what I want—her here, safe, with me.
I move quietly around the room, grabbing a change of clothes for tomorrow, trying not to wake her. But my eyes keep drifting back to her face, to the way her lips part slightly in sleep, to the dark circles under her eyes that speak of too many nights spent worrying instead of resting.
That's when I notice the sketchbook.
It's peeking out from her backpack, which she'd clutched so protectively earlier. My first instinct is to respect her privacy, but seeing as I’m responsible for her and I have to answer to the club for her presence here, I should at least know more about her. I ease it free and flip it open.
Jesus Christ.
The pages are filled with the most beautiful art I've ever seen. Detailed pencil drawings that capture emotion and movement with startling realism. A street musician lost in his song, every line of his weathered face speaking of years spent chasing dreams. An elderly woman feeding pigeons in a park,her gentle smile holding a lifetime of stories. A child's laughter captured in perfect detail, all joy and innocence.
But it's the self-portraits scattered throughout that stop my heart. She's drawn herself from different angles, at different ages, and in each one, there's a haunting quality to her eyes—like she’s hiding a painful secret. The technical skill is incredible, but it's the raw emotion in every stroke that niggles its way into my heart.
This girl has talent. Real fucking talent. The kind that should be in galleries, not hidden in a worn sketchbook carried by someone living in their car.
I flip through more pages, seeing her soul laid bare in graphite and paper. There are darker drawings too—shadowy figures looming over a small girl, hands reaching out in threat rather than comfort. My jaw clenches as the implications hit me. She's drawn her nightmares, attempted to exorcise her demons through art. But even in those dark images, there's a defiant strength to the way she draws herself, a refusal to surrender completely.
Survivor. Fighter. Artist.
The combination is devastating. This beautiful, fragile young woman has been creating beauty despite living with ugliness.
I close the sketchbook carefully and tuck it back where I found it, my hands not quite steady. The urge to wake her up and demand to know every detail of what she's survived, who hurt her, who failed to protect her, is almost overwhelming. But she needs sleep more than she needs my questions.
