"Oh my God." Genuine horror now. "I didn't know?—"
"You didn't bother to find out." Keep my voice cold, controlled. "You assumed. You took a stranger's word. You violated guest privacy because it was easier than doing your job correctly."
"I'm so sorry?—"
I lean down, making sure she hears every word clearly. "You're going to follow verification procedures. Every time someone calls asking about a guest, you confirm with that guest before sharing anything. Every single time. No exceptions."
"Yes, sir."
"And you're going to remember that your negligence could have gotten someone killed. That weight? That's on you. Live with it."
I turn and walk out before the rage simmering under my surface boils over into something uglier. Cole follows silently, both of us moving back through the staff entrance and into the parking lot.
"Feel better?" Cole asks when we're outside.
I flex my hands, knuckles aching from how tightly they've been clenched. "Not really. But they'll think twice before pulling that shit again."
"They probably pissed themselves."
"Good." I head toward my truck. "Mira's under my roof. That's what matters. But anyone who helped the arsonist get to her needs to understand there are consequences."
"Brotherhood takes care of its own." Cole moves toward his bike. "She's one of ours now, whether it's official or not."
"Yeah." Under my protection. In my house. In my life.
I head back home, adrenaline still simmering but banked lower. When I get inside, the house is exactly as I left it—dark and quiet, Brotherhood security still posted outside. I strip off my kutte and hang it by the door, then move silently down the hallway to my bedroom.
The door is still closed. I ease it open and listen—breathing audible in the darkness. Steady. Deep. Peaceful. Mira's still asleep, curled on her side exactly where I left her hours ago.
Tomorrow morning she'll wake up here, make coffee in my kitchen, and we'll keep working the case. But tonight, she's in my house, under my roof, protected by every resource the Brotherhood has. Anyone who threatens that just learned what happens when you cross the Iron Brotherhood's Sergeant-at-Arms.
I strip down to boxers and slide into bed beside her, careful not to disturb her sleep. Her warmth radiates across the small space between us. Within minutes, tension drains from my shoulders, replaced by something I haven't felt in years. Peace. Sleep comes easier with Mira in my bed.
Morning light filters through the blinds when I wake, pulling me from the first full night's rest I've had in weeks. The house is quiet except for the sound of the shower running. Mira is making herself at home.
I head to the kitchen and start coffee, falling into a routine that feels both new and inevitable. Morning light catches copper in Mira's hair when she appears minutes later, reaching for coffee mugs in my cabinet without asking where anything is. She’s wearing jeans and yesterday's sweater, one shoulder sliding down when she stretches. Her feet bare on my tile floor.
"Black?" She glances back, pours both cups and hands me mine, fingers brushing my knuckles lingering there just long enough to remind us both of what changed between us.
Taking the coffee, I watch her lean against the counter across from me. Silence settles between us, not the professional distance we maintained during interviews or the wariness at those first fire scenes. Something easier. More natural. Like mornings together could become routine instead of this careful dance around what's building.
"I've been thinking about the three suspects." Mira breaks the quiet first, always returning to work. "Hartley Industrial, Cascade Services, Summit Contractors. All rejected by Brotherhood-connected businesses repeatedly. Any one nursing the kind of grudge that escalates to arson."
I drink my coffee, already running through investigative angles. "The financial records show desperation, something that pushed them past breaking point."
"I can pull deeper financial data on all three companies." Sharp focus slides into place in her eyes. "Business filings, tax records, anything publicly available. If one's in serious financial trouble, that narrows our suspect pool."
I gesture toward the hallway with my coffee cup. "Computer, printer, secure connection."
After we finish our coffee, we shift into work mode. The professional partnership has been clicking since we started cooperating instead of fighting. But walking down my hallway together feels different than meeting at Ironside or standing atfire scenes. This is private territory. She's here because I brought her here, because protecting her matters more than maintaining distance.
My office occupies the back corner, with windows overlooking the small yard and the garage where my bike stays locked up. The desk sits against one wall, filing cabinets against another. Marine Recon training taught me to maintain order in chaos—everything here reflects that discipline.
I boot up the computer. Mira settles into the chair beside mine, pulling her laptop from her bag. We work side by side in the tight space. Her knee bumps mine when she shifts. When she reaches across me for the notepad, her breast brushes my arm. Each contact makes me hyperaware of her body in my space.
"Hartley Industrial filed for bankruptcy protection shortly before the first fire." She pulls up financial documents, highlighting relevant sections. "Hemorrhaging money since the Brotherhood stopped using them. Lost multiple major contracts they couldn't recover from."
I lean closer, reading over her shoulder. "Desperate enough to burn down the businesses that rejected them?"
