I shook my head, then realized that wasn’t fair. “I want to know how you do it. Live like this. Always ready for everything to go to shit.”
He didn’t answer for a long time. Then said, “You don’t. You just keep going until there’s nothing left to take from you.”
That landed hard. I set the glass down, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside him. Sergeant rolled to herback, demanded a belly rub, and Dean obliged, his hands gentler than I’d ever seen.
We stayed like that for a while, the apartment locked down and the world narrowed to just the three of us, waiting for dawn or for the next disaster, whichever came first.
It was strange, how even in the eye of the storm, the simplest acts—water, touch, presence—could build a shelter, however temporary.
***
I’d spent the last hour reorganizing the kitchen drawers just for something to do, listening to the whisper of Dean’s boots on hardwood, the uneven metronome of him not wanting to be here but more unwilling to leave me alone.
By the time I finally turned to face him, my words were a knot. I pulled my knees up to my chest on the couch, crossed my arms like a shield, and waited until the weight of silence made him look at me.
I cleared my throat, surprised at how dry it was. “I need to know what I’m getting into,” I said. “I need to know—honestly—how much of what you do is illegal. How many people want you dead? I need to know if this is something I can survive.”
Dean stopped. For the first time since he walked in, he stood still. The line of his shoulders went tight, the cut of his jaw harsh under the lamplight.
“You want the truth?” His voice was soft, almost hesitant.
“No,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded like glass breaking, “I want a fairy tale. Of course, I want the truth.”
He exhaled, then walked to the window, peeked through the slat just enough to make sure the lot was still empty, then turned back. “I run the books for the club. I do the paperwork. Sometimes I handle money for stuff that’s not strictly legal.” He rolled his eyes up, calculating. “Nothing big, not like in the movies. We’re not moving guns or bodies. Sometimes it’s weed, sometimes pills, sometimes just cash. But the Sultans—they want to make it bigger. They want territory, and they’ll burn anything that gets in the way.”
“And the violence?” I asked. My voice came out thin, the word barely a real thing.
He stared at his hands, fingers flexing. “Sometimes you have to hurt people to keep them from hurting you.”
It landed with a dull thud. I let it sit, then: “How many people, Dean?”
He hesitated, then said, “Fewer than you’d think. Enough that I have nightmares. Fewer than Damron. More than I wish.”
I felt my heart twisting up, but not out of surprise. I’d known. I just wanted him to say it.
Sergeant let out a whine, as if she was listening for a verdict.
I dug my nails into my palms, held the pain until I could breathe again. “I can’t live with it if you get killed. I can’t live with it if I end up in a hospital or a morgue because someone hates you enough to come after me.” I stopped, then said it again, slower. “I can’t do it.”
Dean didn’t argue. He didn’t even move for a long time. The lamp hummed, throwing fresh shadows across his face, making him look older, worn down by the arithmetic of regret.
He reached for the dog tags at his neck, thumbed them until they spun. “The club is the only family I have left. After my dad, after Ma…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “It’s all I know. But I don’t want it to be all there is.”
I stared at him. The words felt like a dare. “Then you have to give me something. A reason to stay.” My voice was steadier now, even as my hands wouldn’t unclench. “I need monogamy. I need to know that whatever goes down with the club, you’re not going to drag me in with you unlessthere’s no other way. I need boundaries, Dean. Or I can’t do this.”
He didn’t flinch, but he did look away, studying the pale space where the wall met the floor. “I want you,” he said, and the rawness of it scraped me open. “I want you more than I want any of this.”
He was about to say something else when my phone buzzed on the counter. The vibration was a punch in the chest. Dean crossed the room in two strides, grabbed it, and checked the screen before handing it to me.
The text was from Marsha at the shelter:
WAS DRIVING BY. CALL ME ASAP. SULTAN VAN SPOTTED PARKED BY YOUR BUILDING. COPS NOTIFIED BUT NO ETA.
My skin went cold. I looked at Dean, and in the space of a breath, he was a different man—military, calculated, predatory. He slipped a knife from his boot, checked the catch on the window, then motioned me to the hallway, voice low and even.
“Go to the bathroom. Lock the door. Wait for my call. Don’t let anyone in but me.”
I started to protest, but the look in his eyes was final. “If you’re not safe, I’m not safe.”
