Rook grins, unbothered. He's known me long enough to know where my lines are, and he dances right up to them without crossing. "Just making conversation. We don't usually get pretty girls who aren't wearing club property patches or looking to earn their way into someone's bed."
“Say one more dumb thing,” I tell him, “and Tess will ban you from her bar and Cara will put you on volunteer duty with survivors until you learn manners.”
Rook’s grin turns wary. “Terrifying. Not the violence, I can handle the violence. It’s thewomenthat scare me.”
Ava's spine straightens, and I can see the fire building behind her eyes. "I'm not a stray, and I'm definitely not looking to earn anything except answers."
"Answers to what?"
"That's club business," I cut in before this turns into something that requires Vulture’s intervention. "She's underour protection. Spread the word that anyone who touches her answers to me."
The grin fades from Rook's face, replaced by understanding. Protection means hands-off, it means she's untouchable, it means anyone who tries something's going to have to go through me first. It's a serious claim to make, especially for someone who's not club property or an ol' lady.
“And before anyone gets brave,” I add, letting my gaze sweep the room, “Vulture signed off. Falcon’s tracking the fallout. I’m just the part of the equation that makes bad ideas hurt.”
"Got it," Rook says, straightening. "I'll let the boys know. Vulture’s already gave us the rundown about the Reapers' bounty."
"Good. Now get lost. We've got things to discuss."
He raises his coffee mug in a mock salute and disappears back toward the kitchen, leaving us alone again. Ava's watching me with an expression I can't quite read, but it’s something between gratitude and wariness.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For that."
"Don't thank me. It's practical. We can't have you distracted by handsy assholes when we're trying to work." I head toward the stairs. "Come on. I'll show you where you're staying."
The second floor's divided into private rooms for officers and a few long-term members who've earned the privilege. My room's at the end of the hall, far enough from the common areas that I can have some peace when I need it. I unlock the door next to mine and push it open, revealing a space that's seen better days but is clean and functional.
Single bed, dresser, bathroom attached. The window faces the back of the compound, bars on the outside for security. It's not luxury, but it's safe.
"This is yours while you're here," I tell her, setting her bag on the bed. "Lock the door when you're inside. Don't open it foranyone except me or Vulture. Or Knox,” I add. “He’s the medic. If he knocks, it’s because you’re bleeding or someone’s about to make sure you don’t.”
"What if there's an emergency?"
"Then you call me." I pull out my phone and hand it to her. "You have my number."
"What's your real name?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people don't ask, because they don't care. A road name's enough, sometimes more than enough. But Ava's looking at me like she actually wants to know, like it matters.
"Mason," I say after a pause. "Mason Vaughan."
"Mason." She tests it on her tongue, and I hate the way my body reacts to hearing my real name in her voice. "Why Ice Pick?"
"Because that's what I used the first time I had to defend the club. A guy came at Vulture with a knife during a deal gone bad. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find and put it through his shoulder." I shrug, the memory distant now, almost dreamlike. "An ice pick happened to be on the bar, and the name stuck."
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't look horrified. Just thoughtful. "How old were you?"
"Nineteen. Fresh patch, stupid as hell, and way too eager to prove myself."
"And now?"
"Now I'm smart enough to know when to use an ice pick and when to use my fists." I move toward the door, needing distance before this conversation goes somewhere I'm not ready to follow. "Get some rest. We'll go over your files this afternoon."
"Wait." She catches my arm, her hand small against my forearm. "Why are you really helping me? And don't give me the line about it being practical or club business. I want the truth."
I could lie. I should lie. But something about the way she's looking at me, bruised and exhausted but still demanding honesty, makes me pause.
"I had a sister," I say finally, the words rough like gravel. "Elena. She was fifteen when she disappeared. Taken by a trafficking ring that operated out of Nevada. They found her three months later in a shallow grave outside Reno."
