“You cost me money,” he said, voice almost calm. “Now you’ll pay.”
I spent a week in the hospital.
John told everyone I fell down the stairs.
My pencil stops. The paper trembles under my hand.
I can’t draw the woman’s face. Every time I try, the line digs too hard, the page threatening to tear. My throat tightens until I can barely swallow.
So, I draw Diesel instead.
I draw the way the morning light slides over his skin. I draw his hands, big and rough, and how they were careful when he handed me cake. I draw the set of his shoulders, the steadiness in him.
I draw because it keeps the nightmare back.
The door creaks.
Diesel steps inside carrying a bundle of firewood. His eyes flick to the sketchbook in my hands. He doesn’t comment.He drops it into the wood bin.
He studies me for a beat too long. “You okay?”
The question is a minefield. It’s the kind of question that can turn into punishment if you answer wrong.
A laugh barks out of me before I can stop it.
“No,” I say honestly. “But… I’m better than I was yesterday.”
His nod is small, like honesty matters to him. “If you need anything, I’ll be outside.”
He leaves again, and the cabin falls into quiet.
The truth is, I’m terrified.
Malice will be expecting a report. My phone buzzes.
Ignoring it makes things worse.
I look.
Clock’s ticking, princess.
John.
My blood goes cold. He always calls me princess right before he hits me. It isn’t a nickname. It’s a warning.
My stomach churns. I need to give them something. Something to buy time.
An idea flickers. Small. Dangerous.
If I feed the Wolves false information, I can buy the Saints time. If I give the Wolves nothing, they’ll come anyway and I’ll be the first casualty.
Before last night, I wouldn’t have dared to betray them. I would’ve tried to survive by staying invisible. By taking hits and swallowing screams and hoping it ended before it killed me.
But Diesel’s cabin, his quiet care, the way he fed me and gave me his bed, cracked something open.
A sliver of courage.
A spark of self-worth.
