"I mean—" She paused. "Beyond statements. If there's something the club is doing. If there's a way to help."
He crossed the room. Sat in the chair across from her.
"Right now," he said, "the most useful thing you can do is exactly what you've been doing. Staying safe, staying here, not giving the network anything to use against us."
"That feels passive."
"It's not passive. It's strategic." He held her gaze. "And I hear what you're saying. When there's something actionable, and if you can be safe while doing it, I'll tell you."
She looked at him steadily. "Promise me."
He was quiet for a moment. He didn't make promises he couldn't keep. She probably knew that by now.
"Yes," he said. “If something comes up that you can do safely, I’ll let you know. But, I won’t put you in danger.”
Something settled in her face. She leaned back into the couch cushions and exhaled, a long, slowly deflating exhale of someone who had been held at high tension for hours and was finally, carefully, letting it go.
Makenzie appeared in the doorway. "Okay I need to know if people want food because I am stress-eating and I refuse to do it alone."
Emily laughed. It was smaller than her real laugh, but it was something. "What are the options?"
"Whatever Irish will let me make, which historically is a negotiation."
"I'll come help," Emily said.
She stood. Moved toward the kitchen. Stopped in the doorway and turned.
"Rampage."
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She was asking permission.
"I'm good," she said. Direct. Clear-eyed. Not asking him to confirm it, just informing him.I'm good.
"I know," he said. “Go ahead. I’m going to find Lucky and then I’ll join you.”
She went to the kitchen.
He sat in the empty common room for a moment. Listened to her voice carry in from the kitchen, heard her say something that made Makenzie laugh, heard the particular lightness of two women who had both been through something and were choosing to be okay today.
He thought about what she'd said on the run.
It must be exhausting. Knowing how to do that.
He thought about the coloring book on the nightstand.
He thought about two months. About a man who'd looked at Emily Carter and seen a target, who'd watched her and catalogued her and built a careful, patient trap around a woman who left positive reviews on marketplace transactions and posted about trail closures and bought a coloring book in a small-town bookstore because she needed something to make her feel safe.
The anger didn't go anywhere tactical this time.
He let it be there for a moment, in the empty room. He let himself feel it. The pulse in his jaw, the heat in his body.
Then he got up and went to the kitchen.
Emily was standing at the stove with a spatula, defending a decision about onions to Makenzie. Savage was in the doorway eating a piece of garlic bread, watching the debate with a smile. Savannah was sitting at the table taking it all in.
"The onions have to be caramelized," Emily was saying. "You can't rush them. Fifteen minutes minimum."
"It's been eight minutes," Makenzie said.
