There it is.
Bruising.
Not the kind you get from bumping into a doorframe. Not the kind you get from being clumsy.
A shadowed mark near the collarbone, and another along the shoulder like fingers pressed too hard.
My hands go still for half a second.
Heat spikes behind my eyes.
I don’t react the way I want to. I don’t whirl around and ask her who did it. I don’t start breaking things.
I keep cooking.
Because she’s scared. Because she’s already braced for punishment. Because if I push, she’ll shut down, and whatever she came here to do will twist tighter around her throat.
Instead, I keep my voice level. “You hurt?”
She freezes.
Then she laughs, short and thin. “No. I’m clumsy.”
Clumsy.
Exactly like Ghost said.
I let my eyes drop back to the skillet. I let the lie sit where she put it.
“Yeah,” I say, like I believe her.
I don’t.
But she needs the lie right now. It’s armor. It’s all she’s got.
The steak sears, the smell turning rich and warm, and I plate it like I’ve done a thousand times.
She watches me like she can’t understand why a man like me would cook at all. Like where she comes from, women are servants and men take.
I set the plate on the table and nod toward it. “Eat.”
She doesn’t move for a second.
Then she stands, slow, and crosses to the table with that same careful control, like sudden movements are dangerous.
She sits.
She picks up the fork.
Her hands are still shaking.
And I realize, with a clarity that makes my stomach drop, that whatever the Wolves thought they were doing tonight, they handed her to the one man in this county who cannot ignore a broken thing.
I built my whole life around fixing what doesn’t run.
Tonight, they dropped a terrified woman into my path, and my body has already decided.
I’m going to fix this.
