Everything is spartanly organized—black furniture, minimal decoration, a dresser with a precise arrangement of items on top. But there's an armchair in the corner with a rumpled blanket thrown over it and a pillow on the cushion. He spent the night there.
Watching over me…?
The thought makes my throat tight, that specific ache that comes before crying, though I haven't let myself cry in months. I hate how much I want that—someone checking on me, making sure I'm safe.
I sit up carefully, my body stiff after sleeping so hard. The oversized t-shirt Trix gave me swallows my frame, and myreflection in the dresser mirror shows hair that's dried in crazy, wild waves. My uniform from last night hangs over a chair—mostly dry now. Not that it matters. Missing my shifts at both jobs yesterday means I'm definitely fired. More bridges burned in a life full of smoking ruins.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "You awake, honey?" Trix's voice is caring. Not something I'd expect from a virtual stranger.
"Yes, come in."
She enters carrying a steaming mug and a plate piled high with food that makes my stomach growl. The coffee smells like heaven, and the scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast look like a feast fit for royalty.
"Figured you might be hungry." Trix sets the food on the nightstand, and her hand rests on my shoulder. It's such a small thing, but nobody's offered me a comforting touch in so long that my eyes burn. Her shrewd gaze takes in my appearance with the same assessing look from last night. "When's the last time you ate a real meal?"
I have to think about it. Yesterday morning, maybe? A stale donut from the gas station before my shift at the diner started.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the lie tumbling from my lips.
Trix settles into the armchair where Wrath spent the night, fixing me with a look that suggests she sees right through my deflection. "That wasn't what I asked."
Heat floods my face—not embarrassment exactly, but shame at being so obviously needy.
"Thank you," I say quietly, reaching for the coffee. "This is really kind of you."
"Wrath would have my hide if you didn't eat." Trix leans back in the chair, studying me. "Man's been pacing the common room since dawn like a caged tiger."
The image affects me in a weird way. He’s concerned? For me? When I picture him out there, restless and agitated, a liquid heat spreads between my thighs. "He seems...intense."
Trix's mouth curves in a small smile. "In all the years I've known him, I've never seen Wrath lose his cool like he did last night. I thought we might have to scrape Tank off the floor—what was left of him.”
I take a bite of eggs—perfectly seasoned and still warm—and try to process this information. "I don't understand why he's helping me. He doesn't even know me."
"Honey, I can't speak for him, but the way he looked at you last night. Whew!" Trix fans herself with a hand, her expression a mix of amusement and amazement. "Like you were the last woman on earth and he'd been searching for you his whole life."
I remember how he appeared from the shadows like some avenging angel when Tank was crowding me. The absolute authority in his voice when he declared no one better touch me. The way he slept in a chair and gave me his bed.
"He scares me a little," I admit, surprised by my own honesty.
"Good scared or bad scared?"
The question catches me off guard. I pause with a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth, considering. Good scared or bad scared? I'm used to bad scared—the kind that comes from knowing someone bigger and stronger than you wants to hurt you. But what I feel around Wrath is different. Overwhelming, yes. Intimidating, absolutely. But underneath the fear is something that feels almost like...excitement.
"Both, maybe?" I answer truthfully.
"That's fair." Trix stands, wiping her palms on her jeans. "Fear keeps you alive in this world, but facing your fear can also open up new possibilities. When you're ready, come on out.Jigsaw's got news about your car, and some of the others are curious about Wrath's mystery guest. They want to meet you."
After she leaves, I finish every bite of food and drain the coffee mug, feeling more human than I have in weeks. But the prospect of facing a room full of bikers in broad daylight makes my nerves stand on end. Last night I was desperate enough to brave anything. Today, the reality of where I am jangles my nerves.
I find a brush on the dresser and work it through my tangled hair, studying myself in the mirror. The girl looking back at me is too thin, with dark smudges under eyes too large for her face. But the long, deep sleep in a real bed has soothed some of the broken pieces of me.
The main room is less crowded than last night—maybe eight or nine men scattered around tables and the long bar. Conversations pause when I appear, heads turning with varying degrees of curiosity, but the hostile edge I experienced last night is absent.
"Well, look who's finally awake." The voice belongs to the lean man with permanently grease-stained hands who checked my car last might. Jigsaw. He approaches with an easy smile that helps settle my jumping nerves. "Feeling better?"
"Much, thank you." I wrap my arms around myself. "Trix said you had news about my car?"
His expression shifts to apologetic and I brace myself for bad news. "Yeah, about that. I'm real sorry, but she's done for. Engine's completely blown, transmission's shot, and there's a hell of a lot of rust damage to the frame I didn't see last night. Would cost three times what the car's worth to get her running again."
