Even though I expected this news, hearing it confirmed hurts. That rusted piece of junk represented freedom, mobility, independence. Without it, I'm stranded.
"I see." I hate that my voice comes out small and weak.
"Hey." Jigsaw's tone is genuinely kind. "We'll figure something out, okay? This ain't the end of the world."
Before I can respond—though I'm not sure what I would say—the front door opens and every nerve ending in my body suddenly fires at once, like touching a live wire, as Wrath walks in.
He's even more imposing in daylight.
When his eyes find me, the connection between us is electric. I feel it sizzle down my spine. He moves toward me with fluid confidence.
"You eat?" he asks without preamble, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His presence seems to surround me completely.
"Yes.”
"Good." His gaze travels over my face cataloging details. "Get enough sleep?"
The simple questions make my throat tighten.
This feels dangerous, having someone checking on me, caring if I've eaten. It’s like feeding a craving. I could get used to it and become addicted to something that can be snatched away. But God, I'm so tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of being alone.
"Yes," I manage. "Thank you. For letting me use your room. I hope you weren't too uncomfortable?—"
"Don't worry about it." He dismisses my concern with a slight shake of his head. "Jigsaw tell you about the car?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
I swear there’s concern in his expression. Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see.
"That a problem?" he asks.
Is it a problem that my only means of transportation just died? That I'm here in a clubhouse with dangerous people Ibarely know? That I'm attracted to a man who looks like he could snap me like a twig?
"I'll figure something out.” I lift my chin with more confidence than I feel.
"You will." There's something almost possessive in the way he says it. "But not today. Today you rest here, get your bearings."
"I don't want to be a burden." The words tumble out, driven by a lifetime of learning that nothing comes free.
His eyes flash with something that might be anger, though not directed at me. "You're not a burden."
His voice is firm, but I've been taking care of myself for too long to start depending on handouts now, no matter how attractive the man offering them might be.
“I can't just sit around doing nothing.”
"If you want to help out, Trix could use an extra hand behind the bar during dinner rush. Nothing too strenuous. Just restocking, washing glasses."
"I'd like that. I've got experience waitressing."
"Good." He studies my face for another long moment, seeming to catalogue every detail. "You need anything else? Clothes, toiletries, anything?"
"I'm fine," I recite my automatic response.
He doesn't look convinced, but nods and turns toward a table where several other men are gathered. I watch him go, admiring the confident way he carries himself, the subtle deference the other men show him.
"He's something, ain't he?"
I turn to find a woman with shoulder length auburn hair and knowing brown eyes watching me with amusement. She's maybe forty, and very pretty, with laugh lines around her eyes and an air of someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
