“I'm serious about connecting you with buyers. You've got talent."
His voice carries something that feels foreign in my ears. Belief in me.
"Jigsaw." Lizzie's stands in the doorway. "Phone. Parts order."
He nods, then turns back. "I sent him a text. I’m gonna feel him out about what kinda prices to attach to something like that."
For the first time in years, I imagine a future doing something I love.
"Mind some company?" Lizzie approaches with two steaming mugs. Over the past weeks, she's stepped into a role I don't have words for. After my mother chose her abusive husband over her daughter, I soak up Lizzie’s maternal attention like a sponge.
"Please." I take the offered coffee.
“I heard Jigsaw saying you could sell your artwork."
"Maybe. I don't know if?—"
"Can I see?"
I hand over the sketchbook. She flips through pages, pausing on a drawing of Steel and several brothers playing poker. Their weathered faces caught mid-laugh, cards forgotten.
"Honey." She breathes. "These are extraordinary."
The praise makes me straighten with pride. It's not just the compliment itself, but the genuine surprise and respect in her voice.
"You really think they're good?"
"I think you're sitting on a goldmine and don't know it." Lizzie settles beside me on the workbench, her voice taking on the tone of someone with experience navigating practical matters. "Custom motorcycle art, portrait work, even commercial illustration—there's serious money in this if you market it right."
Serious money. The phrase echoes in my mind with the power of an impossible dream suddenly becoming possible. Since I was seventeen, home has been whatever couch someone would let me sleep on, whatever car I could afford, whatever cramped room I could rent week to week. The idea of having something of my own—a bank account with serious money—has me salivating.
"I wouldn't know where to start."
Her face lights up. "We photograph your best pieces. Set up social media to showcase your work. Jigsaw spreads word through his network while you build a portfolio. Baby steps."
We. She said we.
Lizzie must read my thoughts because she smiles knowingly.
“Around here, we help each other figure things out. That's what family's for." The casual use of that word—family—still makes my chest tighten with hope and disbelief. “Steelknows people in the art world. Trix has friends in the tattoo community. And Jigsaw has connections from coast to coast. You're not starting from nothing, honey. You're starting with a support system."
Support. It's such a simple concept, but revolutionary for someone like me. Here, among these dangerous men and strong women, I'm discovering what unconditional acceptance feels like—what it means to be valued for who I am instead of how much I can endure.
"Lizzie?" I venture, as a question I've been carrying surfaces. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything, sweetheart."
"How do you do it? Live with someone whose job involves violence?" The question has been eating at me since I arrived. "How do you reconcile loving someone who's gentle with you but dangerous to others?"
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face with the kind of understanding that comes from personal experience and hard-won wisdom. When she speaks, her voice carries the weight of decades spent navigating this exact contradiction.
"You're asking because you’ve fallen for Wrath."
It's not really a question, but I nod anyway, heat flooding my cheeks at having my feelings so transparent. The admission feels dangerous and liberating at the same time.
"The first thing you have to understand is that there's a difference between a man who's violent because he's cruel and a man who's violent because he's protective." Lizzie leans closer, her shoulder touching mine. “It’s like the difference between a serial killer and a soldier in combat. Steel would kill for me, for this family, for innocent people who can't protect themselves. He's done it before and he'd do it again without hesitation. But he's never raised a hand to me in anger, never used his strengthto intimidate me, never made me afraid of what he might do if I displease him."
"How do you know the difference?"
