Her eyes, still bright with tears, held mine for a long moment.Then her gaze dropped, not in submission but in relief -- the relief of someone who could finally set down a burden they’d carried too far, too long.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I nodded, accepting both her gratitude and the trust it represented.“Rest now.”I rose slowly to avoid startling her.“Tomorrow’s soon enough to figure out next steps.”
She didn’t respond verbally, but her body was already answering -- eyelids growing heavy, shoulders slumping with the bone-deep exhaustion that follows emotional release.The antibiotics Dr.Latimer had given her were likely contributing, fighting the infection while pulling her toward needed sleep.
I stepped back, giving her space to stretch out on the bed if she chose.Instead, she simply curled onto her side atop the quilt, still wearing my leather cut like armor.Her eyes closed, then fluttered open briefly, searching for me in the amber-lit room.
“I’ll be right outside,” I reassured her, moving toward the door.
Her eyes closed again, this time staying shut.Her breathing slowed, deepened.The vulnerability of it struck me -- this woman who had run through the night, fought off attackers, survived whatever hell had marked her with zip ties and bruises, now trusting enough to sleep in my presence.The burden of that trust settled on my shoulders, heavier than any Prospect challenge or club obligation I’d ever carried.
I reached for the extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed and gently laid it over her.She didn’t stir, already sliding into the deep sleep of complete exhaustion.My cut rose and fell with her breathing, the Kings’ emblem a promise of protection that would remain when she woke.
At the door, I paused for one last look.In sleep, the wariness had fallen from her face, revealing someone younger than she’d appeared before.Not innocence -- I suspected that had been stolen long ago -- but a glimpse of who she might have been before whatever hell she’d escaped.Who she might become again, given time and safety.
I left the door partially open as I stepped out, ensuring I’d hear if she called out.The couch in the main room would serve well enough for the night.I’d slept in far worse places during my years with the Kings.
As I settled in, the reality of what I’d set in motion today finally hit me fully.I’d claimed a woman I’d known less than an hour, brought unknown danger to the club’s doorstep, committed to protection without knowing what -- or who -- I was protecting her from.By all logic, it was reckless, impulsive, potentially disastrous.
And yet, hearing her steady breathing from the bedroom, seeing the peace that had finally settled on her face as she slept, I couldn’t find it in me to regret the choice.Whatever came next -- whatever storm followed her to our gates -- we would face it.The Kings protected their own.And for better or worse, Callie was now one of ours.
Mine.
Chapter Four
Callie
I’d slept for a short time, but I felt more rested, and now it was time to talk.The fire had died down to embers, casting long shadows across Samson’s cabin.I sat curled on the couch, his leather cut heavy around my shoulders.My fingers traced the bandages on my wrists, the clean white gauze stark against my skin.Outside, the sun still hadn’t risen, but the darkness felt different here -- contained, kept at bay by walls and locks and the steady presence of the man sitting across from me.
Samson waited, patient and undemanding.He’d given me food, medical care, and protection.Now he wanted information, but unlike others, he didn’t press.A single lamp burned on the side table, its amber glow sealing the room in a warm pocket, cut off from the world hunting me.
My throat closed around words I needed to speak.How did you explain a nightmare to someone who hadn’t lived it?How did you make them understand when no one else had believed?
“Take your time,” Samson said, his deep voice breaking the silence without shattering it.
I wrapped my fingers around the mug of tea he’d made, letting the warmth seep into my palms.The liquid inside had gone cold while I searched for a place to begin.
“He’s…” My voice cracked.I couldn’t say his name.Not yet.Names had power, and speaking his might somehow summon him across the miles.“In my town, everyone respects him.”
Samson nodded, encouraging without pushing.
“He wears pressed suits.Always perfect.Not a wrinkle.”My fingers trembled against the rim of the mug, memories flooding back unwanted.“Silver badge.Everyone calls him sir.”
The charity dinner flashed behind my eyes -- bright lights, women in cocktail dresses, men in ties congratulating each other on their generosity.His hand on my lower back, steering me toward important people.His smile never reaching his eyes when he introduced me.
“I was serving drinks at a homeless shelter,” I continued, the words coming faster now.“Volunteer work.Makes you look good in a small town.He noticed me.Said I had a good heart.”My laugh came out hollow.“Three weeks later, he showed up at my apartment.Said he was checking on me.”
Samson remained still, only the slight tightening of his jaw betraying his reaction.
“His grip…” I set down the mug, my fingers instinctively circling my wrist where phantom pressure lingered beneath the bandages.“At first, it was friendly.A hand on my shoulder.Then my wrist.Tighter each time.”
The memory ambushed me -- his fingers digging into my skin as he guided me through the crowded charity event, leaning close to whisper, “Smile wider.People are watching.”The bruises appeared the next day, five perfect fingerprints I’d hidden under long sleeves.
“He started showing up everywhere.My work.The grocery store.”I swallowed hard, mouth dry despite the tea.“My apartment.Always with some excuse.Bringing food.Checking the locks.Making sure I was safe.”
Samson’s knuckles whitened around his coffee mug, but his expression remained carefully neutral.
