"You're fixing it yourself?"
I don't look up. Gears is standing in the doorway of the shop, two cups of coffee in his hands. He's been my VP for five years. He knows me better than anyone, which means he knows something's different about this situation.
"I want to see what she's been driving," I say, not because I need to explain myself, but because Gears deserves that much honesty.
He hands me a cup and takes a long, assessing look at the Civic, his expression darkening as he takes in the rust-eaten wheel wells and the suspicious puddle of transmission fluid forming beneath the chassis. "Jesus Christ. That thing's a death trap on wheels."
"I know." The words come out harder than I intend.
"So what's the plan here? Fix it up, send her on her way with a tank of gas and a prayer?"
I straighten, wiping the grease off my hands with a rag that's already black with oil. "She's staying."
Gears' eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "For how long?"
"Until I decide otherwise." My tone leaves no room for discussion.
He doesn't push, doesn't question my authority. He's smart like that, knows when to back off. But his expression says plenty—curiosity mixed with concern, the kind that comes from knowingme well enough to recognize when I'm wading into dangerous territory.
"Her ex is trouble," I say, because I owe him at least that much explanation. "Connected trouble. Senator's kid with family money and political protection."
He whistles low, a sound of understanding and apprehension. "That's a hell of a mess to step into."
"It's my mess now."
"She know that yet?"
I go back to the engine, focus on the broken pieces I can actually fix. "She'll figure it out soon enough."
Itell myself I'm just checking the security feeds. Normal protocol. She's a stranger on club property, and it's my job to know what's happening in my territory.
But I've been watching her door for twenty minutes.
She emerges around seven, hair still damp from the shower, wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. I make a mental note to fix that. Tessa can take her shopping, get her something that fits properly, something that doesn't look like it came from the bottom of a duffel bag.
I watch her navigate the hallway, hesitant and careful, like she's expecting an ambush around every corner. Old habits. The kind you develop when you've spent too long living with a monster.
She finds the kitchen. Mama Rosa must hear her coming, because there's already coffee poured and a plate on the table. I watch Sparrow wrap her hands around the mug the sameway she did last night, like warmth is something precious. Like kindness is something she's not sure she deserves.
Something twists in my chest. Angry and possessive and unfamiliar.
Mama Rosa says something I can't hear, and Sparrow laughs. Real laughter, startled out of her, lighting up her whole face. She's beautiful when she laughs. Not that she isn't beautiful all the time, but this is different. This is what she'd look like if she wasn't carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Whiskey walks into the kitchen and I go tense, watching for any sign that he's going to make a move. But he just nods at her, grabs his own coffee, and heads out. Sparrow's shoulders relax.
She's cataloguing them. Learning who's safe, who's a threat. Smart girl.
Gears appears on the monitor next. He says something to Sparrow, probably introducing himself, and I see her stiffen for just a moment before his easy smile puts her at ease. He glances up at the camera. Right at me.
The bastard knows exactly what I'm doing.
I should stop watching. I don't.
When Sparrow leaves the kitchen, I track her through the clubhouse. She wanders, curious, stopping to look at the photos on the wall. Club history. Memorial pieces for brothers we've lost. Her fingers trace the edge of Marcus's frame, just a light touch, gentle and reverent.
Something cracks in my chest. Something I've kept locked up tight for seven years.
The door to my office opens. I don't look away from the screen.
