“And I’m still standing.”
My jaw tightens.
Yeah. She is.
That’s the part making this harder. Not easier. She isn’t reckless. Not stupid. She’s scared, but she’s trying to decide what that fear gets to take from her. I can see the difference. I don’t like it, but I see it. She pulls in a breath, and her voice lowers. “I can’t just stop living because someone put my name in a folder.”
“You can live tomorrow.”
“I’m supposed to work, go out with my sister, and pretend I didn’t disappear from my own life. If I cancel everything, they’ll know something’s wrong. If I stay hidden, whoever did this wins anyway.”
“They win if they get their hands on you.”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
She steps closer. Not much. Enough. “No, but I know hiding in your room forever isn’t a plan.”
I stare at her. She’s wearing jeans and a black top that sits too tight against her body. Her hair is down. Her cheeks are flushed from arguing with me, eyes bright with nerves and stubbornness and something alive that I haven’t seen in her since before the attack stole it from her. She wants this. Not the club. Not the risk.
Normal.
She wants a piece of herself back.
I understand that.
I still fucking hate it.
My mind runs the angles. Club environment. Public place. Too many exits. Too many bodies. Unknown threat chain. One failed grab. One lost van. Dom still digging through the burners, traffic cams, names, the whole damn trail. Logan already on edge. Punishment for walking past him still sitting between us, waiting. Risk is high. Control is low. That should end it. But Olivia is looking at me like she’s waiting to see if I’m protection or a cage.
I don’t want to be the second. Not if I don’t have to be. I push off the dresser. “Fine.”
Her eyes narrow, immediately suspicious. Smart girl. “Fine?”
“You don’t go alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to. I just said Tessa and my sister—”
“They don’t count.” Her mouth opens. I keep going. “I’m there. Prospects are there. You stay within arm’s reach unless I say different. No wandering. No bathroom alone. If I tell you to move, you move.”
Her face tightens again. “That sounds like permission with a leash.”
“It’s not a leash. It’s adjustment.”
“That’s not better.”
“It’s honest.”
She glares at me, and for one second, I see the moment she weighs telling me to go fuck myself. Part of me wants her to. Not because I want a fight. Because I like seeing her spine. She reaches for her other boot, sits on the bed, and pulls it on with more force than necessary. “I’m not helpless.”
“I know.” That stops her for half a breath. I don’t soften it. Don’t turn it into something else. “You promise me,” I say. Her eyes lift to mine. “No wandering,” I continue. “No disappearing into a crowd because you’re pissed. No stepping outside without me. No letting someone pull you away because it feels normal. You feel something off, you tell me. You want distance from me, you say it where I can hear you. But you do not vanish.”
She looks down at her hands. Hesitates. This part matters. Not because I need obedience.Because I need choice. If she agrees and means it, I can work with that. If she says yes just to shut me up, it means nothing. Finally, she nods. “I promise.”
I hold her gaze. “Say it.”
Her throat moves. “I promise I won’t wander off. I’ll stay close. If something feels off, I’ll tell you.”
