"Carter takes her to the aquarium in the city once a month. She can name every species of shark, knows which ones are endangered, and gets genuinely angry about ocean pollution." He's talking faster now, animated in a way I haven't seen before. "Last time I visited, she spent two hours explaining the difference between great whites and bull sharks. Two hours. And I listened to every word because she was so damn excited about it."
The image makes my heart race faster. Phoenix sitting and listening to a five-year-old talk about sharks for two hours because he loves her that much.
"She sounds amazing," I say.
"She is. She's—" He stops, and I see the emotion flicker across his face. "She's the proof that we did something right. That leaving the Vipers, building something new, fighting for honor instead of profit, it all mattered. Because Maya gets to grow up safe. Gets to be curious and smart and passionate about sharks. Gets to have a childhood that isn't poisoned by violence and corruption."
"That's why you won't risk Carter," I understand now. "Because losing him would destroy her."
"Yeah." Phoenix's voice is rough. "I need my brother to stay alive more than I need his help in this fight. Maya needs her father. Those are facts, and I build my decisions around facts."
We fall into conversation after that, and I find myself asking more questions. About the Iron Phoenix, about how he chose his members, about what it's like running a club. Phoenix answers everything with patience and honesty, never making me feel stupid for asking, never shutting me down the way Cole used to.
He tells me about Judge and his military background, about Brick's tactical expertise, about Canvas's art, Diesel's mechanical genius, and every other member. He talks about each brother with respect and affection, like they're not just members of his club but family he's chosen and built.
"What about Saint?" I ask eventually. "It must be strange, having Demon's brother in your club."
"It was at first," Phoenix admits. "When he showed up two years ago asking for a patch, I almost turned him away. The resemblance alone was enough to make my trigger finger itch. But then he told me his story, how he'd watched Demon destroy everything good about the Vipers, how he'd tried to talk sense into his brother and been threatened for it, how he'd finally walked away because he couldn't stomach what the club had become."
"And you believed him?"
"Not immediately. I vetted him harder than anyone I've ever vetted. Made him prove himself for six months before I even considered giving him a prospect patch. Another year before he got patched in fully." Phoenix's expression is serious. "Buthe earned it. Proved he's nothing like his brother, that sharing Demon's blood doesn't mean sharing his sickness."
"He really hates him," I say, remembering the bitterness in Saint's voice earlier. "His own brother."
"Demon killed the brother Saint used to know. The man who wears his face now is a stranger. A monster." Phoenix's voice is flat. "Saint mourned the brother he lost and moved on. That's all any of us can do."
"It might not be the same thing," I say quietly, surprising myself with the confession. "But I've mourned the person I used to be too."
Phoenix's eyes focus on me, attentive. Listening.
"I can never be that naive and dreamy person again," I continue, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "The one who thought a charming man at a diner meant safety. Who believed love could fix loneliness. Who didn't know that bruises could become routine, that fear could become normal, that you could lose yourself so completely you'd forget what your own voice sounds like."
"Maybe now you can't," Phoenix says, and his voice is gentle. "But perhaps in a few years, you'll look back and realize this was just a bad couple of years. That things got better. That you rebuilt yourself into someone stronger, someone who knows her own worth. Maybe you'll have a relationship with someone who deserves you. Maybe kids. Maybe just peace and freedom and the chance to be curious again without fear."
His words paint a picture I can barely imagine. A future where Cole is just a bad memory, where the bruises have faded completely, where I can trust someone enough to build a life with them.
It sounds like a fairy tale. But sitting here with Phoenix, watching him look at me like I'm worth fighting for, it almost seems possible.
"What about you?" I ask before I can think better of it. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
I expect him to say no. A man like Phoenix, dangerous, scarred, carrying the weight of a war on his shoulders, doesn't seem like the type to have someone waiting at home. Doesn't seem like the type who lets people close enough to matter.
He chuckles, then shifts, crossing his arms behind his head in a way that makes his muscles flex. His shoulders pull his t-shirt taut, and I can see every line of his torso, every shadow of ink beneath the fabric.
He looks like a sculpture. Like something carved from marble and brought to life specifically to make women forget how to breathe.
"No," he says, confirming what I already suspected. "And probably won't."
The certainty in his voice surprises me. "Why not?"
"I'm used to being alone. Used to living a dangerous life." He says it simply, like it's just a fact he's accepted. "How can I expect someone to put herself in that position? To wake up every day knowing her partner might not come home because some rival club decided to start trouble? To live with the constant threat of violence, the reality that loving me means painting a target on her back?"
I can hear the loneliness underneath every word. The resignation. Phoenix has convinced himself that he's meant to be alone, that his life is too dangerous, too complicated, too violent for anyone else to share.
"Some women would be willing to go for it," I say.
He looks at me, eyebrows raised slightly. "Yeah?"
