But they might.
Cain was careful, but he was also arrogant.
He might have slipped up somewhere, left a trail.
If I can find it, document it, use it...
"Levi."
Zenon's voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
He's standing in the doorway, watching me with that knowing look.
"What?"
"She's awake. Saw her in the main room a few minutes ago. Tawny gave her some clothes."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
I should go to her.
Should check on her, make sure she's okay after everything that happened last night, but part of me is afraid.
Afraid of what I'll feel when I see her.
Afraid of how much I already feel.
Afraid that this thing between us—whatever it is—is going to destroy the careful control I've spent years building.
"You care about her." It's not a question.
"I don't know what I feel."
"Bullshit." Zenon steps into the room, letting the door close behind him. "I've known you fifteen years, brother. I've seenyou with women. I've seen you cold, seen you calculating, seen you walk away without looking back. This isn't that. This is something else."
"It can't be something else. Not now. Not with Varro breathing down our necks."
"The heart doesn't care about timing." He shrugs. "Trust me. I learned that the hard way."
I don't ask what he means. We all have our stories. Our wounds.
"What do you suggest?" I ask instead.
"I suggest you stop fighting it." He moves to stand beside me, both of us staring at the empty table where decisions get made. "Whatever you feel for her, it's not going away. Might as well accept it. Figure out how to make it work."
"And if it puts the club at risk?"
"Then we handle it. Together. That's what we do." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "Go talk to her, Levi. She's probably scared out of her mind right now. Wondering what last night meant, wondering if you're going to push her away."
He's right. I know he's right.
I push away from the table and head for the main room.
I find her on one of the couches, tucked into the corner with her knees drawn up and a battered paperback in her hands.
She's wearing borrowed clothes—jeans that are a little too big, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up—and her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail.
The bruises on her face are still vivid, still painful to look at, but there's something different about her this morning.
