Minutes stretch. My heartbeat slows by degrees.
Sin shifts on the floor. Fabric scrapes. A quiet exhale.
He tries to get comfortable and doesn’t quite manage it.
He looks like a man who’s spent too many nights with cold ground under him and a weapon within reach.
I find my voice again. “You were in the military?”
His eyes flick to me. “Yeah.”
I hesitate. “Are you... okay?”
A humorless curve touches his mouth and disappears. “Depends on the day.”
That answer feels honest.
I shift on the bed, trying to make my body believe this is a safe room instead of a stage.
“Do you like being a biker?”
“It’s family,” he says.
Family.
The word twists something inside me.
My family left bruises no one could see. Taught me to be grateful for scraps. Sent me far enough away that I could finally breathe.
Sin says family like it means protection.
Like it means loyalty.
Like it means nobody gets sold.
I swallow. “I don’t have that. My family only hurt me.”
“You do tonight,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens.
Sin shifts again on the floor, and I hear the blanket bunch underneath him.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, willing my eyes to close.
They don’t.
Every time I blink, the stage flashes behind my eyes.
Every time the wind hits the cabin, my heart jumps.
I hear Sin’s breathing change, slow for a moment, then sharpen again like his mind won’t let him drift.
He’s awake.
He’s listening.
He’s guarding.
