Derek stopped walking when he saw me coming. He shifted Frankie slightly in his arms, adjusting his hold to make room, and I watched something change in his expression. The exhaustion was still there, but beneath it, hope. Desperate, terrified hope.
“Frankie.” I reached them and my hands found my daughter’s face, her shoulders, her hair. “Baby, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m okay.” She was crying now, her arms tight around my neck as she leaned from Derek’s hold into mine. “I twisted my ankle, but Derek found me.”
My hands were shaking as I touched her, checking for injuries, reassuring myself she was real and whole and safe. Derek stood perfectly still, supporting her weight while I held her, his arms steady beneath her.
I looked up at him then, and our eyes met over Frankie’s head.
He looked wrecked. Terrified. Like he was waiting for me to take her and run, to tell him to leave, to shut him out forever.
But he also looked at Frankie as if she were his entire world.
His hand supported her back with such tenderness, his fingers spread wide to keep her secure. The way he held her—protective, gentle, like he’d fight God himself before he let anything hurt her—made something crack open in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Thank you for finding her.”
Derek’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. “Always.” The word was rough, raw. “I’ll always find her. I’ll always bring her home.”
I’ll always protect her.
The unspoken promise hung between us, heavy with meaning.
Frankie shifted in our combined hold, wincing slightly. “Can we go inside? My ankle really hurts.”
“Of course, baby.” I stepped back slightly, and Derek’s arms tightened around her automatically.
“I can carry her in,” he said quietly. “If that’s okay.”
I looked at him, really looked at him. At the fear in his eyes. At the hope. At the desperate need for me to trust him, to believe in him, to give him a chance.
What if you let him in and he loves you both the way you deserve to be loved?
Haizley’s words echoed in my mind.
I was terrified. Every instinct I’d honed over years of bad choices screamed at me to be careful, to protect myself, to keep him at a distance.
But as I watched Derek hold my daughter, I realized something.
Being brave didn’t mean I wasn’t scared.
It just meant I was willing to try anyway.
“Okay,” I said softly. “Let’s get her inside.”
Derek’s eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t expected me to agree. Then something shifted in his expression, relief so profound it made my chest ache.
He turned toward the house, Frankie secure in his arms, and I walked beside them.
I didn’t know what came next. I didn’t know if I could fully trust him, or if my fear would win in the end.
But for the first time in a long time, I was willing to find out.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Katrina
Patch, the club’s doctor, finished wrapping Frankie’s ankle with practiced efficiency, his hands gentle despite their size. “Just a mild sprain,” he said, looking up at me. “Keep it elevated; ice it regularly. She’ll be fine in a few days.”
