His cut reads Treasurer. He grins, eyes bright.
"You're late, Vice," he says. "James is two threats away from force feeding whoever you brought."
Vice. The word snags in my head. Knox is the vice president. I'm still turning that over when the man's gaze drops to me, and the grin changes. Curious now. Recalibrating.
"Well, shit," he says softly. "You really did bring someone. Thought Malachi was just saying words to make us antsy."
"East," Knox warns. "Relax."
East lifts a hand in mock surrender, attention on me. "Easton. Everyone calls me East. I count the money and annoy authority."
"Successfully," Malachi mutters.
East winks. "Welcome to Willowridge, Sloane. You are officially the reason our vice went dark for two days."
My cheeks flame. Knox's mouth hooks at one corner. The look he gives East says everything he won't. "Busy couple of days," he adds, as though that explains everything.
East's brows lift. "Yeah, I bet."
Behind him, a quieter presence leans against the doorframe. Dark hair, muscle stacked on muscle, arms folded. His cut reads Sergeant-at-Arms. His expression gives nothing away. When his gaze meets mine, it stays there long enough that I start to feel like a document being read from the wrong end.
"Nash." Knox nods beside me. "Sergeant-at-Arms. He’s the enforcer. Don't let the silence fool you."
East grins. Nash doesn't.
A woman's voice floats from inside. "If he's making that poor girl stand on the street while the boys posture, I'm throwing a dishcloth at someone's head."
Another voice follows, deep and amused. "Let him breathe, Mags. Man hasn't even crossed the threshold yet."
The door widens, and she appears. She has jeans, a soft T-shirt, and an apron tied at her waist. Her hair is pulled back, loose strands framing her face. There's flour on her forearm and a damp dishtowel over one shoulder.
Her eyes settle on me, sweeping my frame once with the practiced ease of a woman who can guess a dress size from across a room, and the warmth in them is so heavy my knees almost buckle.
"Maggie Carruthers." Knox sounds a little resigned. "This is Sloane. Mags runs this place with James. Malachi just thinks he does."
Malachi snorts. "Woman lets me pretend to lead if I take out the trash."
Maggie ignores him. She moves closer, but her hand hovers near my arm instead of landing.
"Can I?" she asks. I nod before my throat decides to close. Her fingers brush my forearm, then squeeze once. "Inside," she orders. "You can barely stand up, and I'm not letting you pass out in the parking lot when there's chili on the stove."
Someone calls from behind her. "Tell her it's good chili, too. First batch of the season."
A man appears beside Maggie. Older, gray hair gathered at the nape, with a thick gray beard, and eyes that crinkle at the corners.
"This is James." Maggie gestures. "He cooks, he cleans, and pretends he doesn't eavesdrop."
He holds out a hand. "James Carruthers. Welcome." His grip is warm and steady. Knox lets go to let me step forward. I feel assessed again, but this time it's different. He tracks from my head down my torso. I recognize the sweep instantly; visual triage. Looking for favoring, swelling, guarding.
"You hurt anywhere?" he asks. "Head, chest, stomach?"
"I'm a nurse," I say. "I'd notice."
His focus sharpens. "Trauma?"
"ER and ICU."
He nods. "Then you know why I ask anyway."
