This is different, though. This isn't business. This isn't the club asking me to solve a problem.
This is personal.
I think about Fleur. The way she looked when I found her on that road—torn dress, ruined feet, running from something that scared her more than the desert at night. The way she looked at me like I might be safe. Like I might be worth trusting.
The way she saidI love youlast night, like she meant it. Like she wasn't afraid of what I am.
I think about Dominic. The things Fix told me—the women before Fleur, the ones who disappeared or went silent or learned not to talk about him.
My hands tighten on the handlebars.
I ride until I find what I'm looking for. And then I stop thinking entirely.
I do what I've always been good at. I make the problem disappear.
It's dark by the time I get back to the clubhouse.
The ride was long. Quiet. Just me and the road and the weight of what I'd done settling into my bones. I've carried this weight before—it never gets lighter, but you learn to live with it. Learn to bury it deep enough that it doesn't surface at the wrong moments.
I park the bike. Walk inside. Find Saint in the main room, nursing a whiskey at the bar.
He looks up when I approach. Doesn't ask any questions. Just waits.
"It's handled," I say.
Two words. That's all he needs.
Saint nods once. "Good."
Then he turns back to his drink, and I head for the hallway. For her.
She's in my room. Pacing.
I can see it before I even open the door—the shadow passing back and forth across the gap at the bottom, the restless movement of someone who's been waiting too long. When I push the door open, she freezes mid-step.
Her eyes find mine. Then scan down my body, back up again—checking I'm whole, checking I'm here, checking I came back to her like I promised.
"You're back," she breathes.
"I'm back."
She crosses to me. Doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't ask where I've been or what I did or whether Dominic is still breathing. She just stops in front of me, reaches up, and takes my face in her hands.
Her palms are warm against my jaw. Her eyes are searching mine, looking for something I'm not sure I know how to give.
"Are you okay?"
The question hits me somewhere deep. Somewhere I didn't know I was still soft.
No one asks me that. Not after. My brothers respect what I do, but they don't want to know the details. They don't want to see the weight of it. And I've never let anyone else close enough to ask.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. "I am now."
She doesn't say anything else. Just pulls me in.
I let her.
I let her wrap her arms around me and hold on, let her press her face against my chest, let her anchor me to something that isn't violence and blood and the cold efficiency of what I'm capable of. I hold her back—arms tight around her waist, face buried in her hair, breathing her in.
