Until Vice drops onto the couch across from me.
I recognize him from last night—he was the one on the couch, beer in hand, eyebrows climbing when Grim walked me through. He's got an easy smile and a relaxed slouch that makes him seem more approachable than the others. Though I'm starting to learn that none of these men are quite what they seem on the surface.
"So," he says, settling in like we're old friends. "You're the stray Grim dragged in."
"That's me."
"Gotta say, I've known him fifteen years." Vice leans back, studying me with obvious curiosity. "Never seen him sit with anyone this long. Never seen him make coffee for anyone whowasn't bleeding out on the floor." His smile widens. "What's your secret?"
Before I can answer, Grim appears in the doorway.
He doesn't say anything. Just looks at Vice. That's all—one look, flat and cold, carrying the weight of fifteen years of violence and the promise of more.
Vice holds up his hands. "Leaving. I'm leaving."
He does.
Grim's gaze shifts to me. Checking on me. Making sure I'm okay. His eyes hold mine for a moment longer than necessary, and my stomach flips. Dominic never made my stomach flip. Eight months, and not once did a look from him make me feel like this.
"I'm fine," I say softly.
He nods once. Disappears back down the hall.
I watch him go. The broad shoulders. The way he moves—controlled, deliberate, like contained violence given human form. Every step purposeful. Every movement precise.
Something tightens low in my belly.
I'm in trouble. Real trouble. And not the kind I ran from.
Night falls slowly.
I spend the day in a strange limbo—not quite a guest, not quite a prisoner, justhere. Grim checks on me periodically, but he doesn't hover. Doesn't crowd. Just appears in doorways, makes sure I have what I need, disappears again. The other men keep their distance. I read a battered paperback I found on a shelf. Eat a sandwich Grim brings me without being asked. Try not to think about Dominic, about what happens next, about the fact that I have no phone, no money, no plan.
Try not to think about grey eyes and rough hands and the way my heart races every time he walks into a room.
By the time darkness presses against the windows, I can't sit still anymore.
I find the back steps through a door off the kitchen. Step outside into the cool night air, expecting to be alone.
He's already there.
Grim sits on the concrete steps, staring out at the desert like he's waiting for something. Or remembering something. In the dark, he's all shadows and edges, his profile sharp against the faint glow from the city in the distance.
I should go back inside. Give him his space. But something pulls me forward—something I don't have a name for, something that feels like gravity.
I sit down next to him without asking permission.
Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
He tenses. Every muscle going tight, like he's about to stand up and walk away. Then, slowly, he settles. Accepts my presence. Doesn't tell me to leave.
For a while, neither of us talks. The desert stretches out beyond the lot, dark and endless, the same desert I ran through yesterday in a ruined wedding dress and designer heels. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like five minutes.
I'm aware of every inch of space between us. Every breath he takes. The way his hands rest on his knees, scarred and tattooed and so close I could reach out and touch them.
"You're not what everyone thinks," I finally say.
He turns his head slightly. Listening. Not looking at me, but listening.
