The word hits me like a punch to the gut. "I'm not?—"
"Don't." His voice is firm. "Don't bullshit me, brother. I've watched you with her. The way you look at her. The way you talk about her. The way you nearly took Stark's head off just now for implying she's a problem." He shakes his head. "You love her. It's written all over you."
I want to deny it. Want to retreat behind the walls I've spent years building, the cold control that's kept me alive and sane.
But the words won't come, because he's right.
"It doesn't matter what I feel," I say finally. "What matters is keeping this club together. Keeping her safe."
"Those two things might not be compatible forever." Zenon's voice is gentle. "At some point, you might have to choose."
"I'm not choosing between her and the club."
"You might not have a choice." He stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Just... think about it. Figure out what you really want. And then figure out how to protect it."
He walks out, leaving me alone with his words echoing in my head.
You love her.
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.
This was never supposed to happen.
I don't do feelings. I don't do attachments.
I've built my entire life around being the cold, calculated leader this club needs.
But then Ripley showed up on my doorstep, bloody and broken and looking at me like I was the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
And something shifted. Something cracked.
I do love her.
The admission settles into my chest like a stone.
Heavy. Immovable. True.
I love her, and I have no idea what to do about it.
I find her in my room—our room, now, though we haven't talked about it.
She's sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop balanced on her knees, brow furrowed in concentration.
When I walk in, she looks up with a smile that fades as she takes in my expression.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I cross to the window, staring out at the parking lot without really seeing it. "Just club business."
"The raid." It's not a question. She heard the commotion, saw the aftermath. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Leviathan." Her voice is soft. Concerned. "Talk to me."
I should. I know I should. But the words from church are still ringing in my ears—she's a liability, she's a problem, this wouldn't be happening if you hadn't brought her here—and I can't bring myself to burden her with that.
"It's nothing you need to worry about," I say instead. "Just Varro being a pain in the ass."
