The refusal is sharp, defensive. Not rude. A boundary.
Interesting.
I nod once and don’t argue. “Fine. Stay close.”
Her eyes narrow, like she wants to push back on the command.
Then she glances at the trees. The shadows. The empty road.
She falls in step behind me.
Inside, the cabin is one big main room with a kitchenette, a couch that’s seen better decades, two mismatched chairs, and a wood-burning stove. A bedroom and bathroom sit down a short hall.
I flip the lights on.
Nadia steps in and stops just inside the doorway, duffel in hand, scanning corners like she expects the walls to move.
Adrenaline crash. It hits everyone. It just hits some people quieter.
I toss my helmet on the counter and keep my voice even.
“Bathroom’s through there. Bedroom’s in the back. Door locks. Windows don’t open.”
Her brows lift.
“Comforting,” she says.
“It’s safe,” I correct.
Not the same thing.
I move to the kitchenette, fill the kettle from the jug, and set it on the stove. The routine steadies my hands. Gives my brain something simple to do besides replaying how close the Wolves got to her car.
“Tea or coffee?” I ask.
She blinks like she wasn’t expecting kindness to come in such a normal question.
“Tea,” she says carefully. “If you have it.”
“I do.”
I pull a tin from the cabinet and set it on the counter, along with a small metal infuser. Not fancy. Functional.
Nadia watches me with suspicion that keeps trying to turn into curiosity and failing by inches.
“Where’d you learn to make tea like that?” she asks, taking one of the stools at the counter like she’s choosing the position with the best exit path.
“Trial and error,” I say.
She snorts. “You’re telling me the Damned Saints vice president has a delicate little tea routine.”
There it is. The bite. Controlled, not careless.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say. “Ruins my image.”
The kettle whistles. I pour water, fill the infuser, and slide a mug toward her.
I pause, then reach into a different cabinet and pull out a small bottle.
