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Fawn’s hands twist in the blanket. I can see her struggling with it, the need to control everything, to protect her sister from every angle, to never let anyone else carry the weight. It’s exhausting just watching her do it.

“Pack what you need,” I say. “Clothes. Pictures. Whatever matters. We’ll send someone for the rest.”

She doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands, swaying slightly. Noah reaches out to steady her, and she doesn’t flinch this time. Small progress.

She moves to a dresser that’s missing one drawer handle, pulling out clothes with mechanical efficiency, folding them with the practiced motions of someone who’s moved too many times. A small photo frame goes into the bag. A worn copy of a paperback. The few things that matter in a life that’s never had room for excess.

I watch her, and I think about the first time I saw her. Halloween night, drunk and terrified in a bunny costume, cornered by three masked strangers who told her they owned her for the night. She should hate us. She should run screaming from any room we’re in. Instead, she’s packing a bag because we told her to, because some part of her trusts us to keep her safe even after everything we did.

It makes me want to be worthy of that trust. It also makes me want to lock her away somewhere no one can ever reach her again.

She zips the bag. It’s not full. There’s not enough here to fill it.

“Ready,” she says, and her voice is steady, but her hands are shaking.

Noah takes the bag. Kipton moves to the door, checking the hallway before he lets us step out. I stay close to Fawn as we descend the stairs, close enough to smell her shampoo, close enough to catch her if she stumbles. She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are fixed ahead, braced for whatever comes next.

The car waits at the curb, black and conspicuous and completely wrong for this neighborhood. One of our guys stands by the rear door, his bulk blocking the view from the street. He nods as we approach, and I see Fawn’s shoulders tense at the sight of another stranger.

“He works for us,” I say. “He’s good.”

She nods, but she doesn’t relax.

We drive in silence. Kipton behind the wheel, Noah in the passenger seat, me in the back with Fawn pressed against the opposite door like she’s trying to put as much space between us as possible. I don’t blame her. I don’t try to close the gap. She needs room to breathe, and I’m learning that wanting her close doesn’t mean I get to demand it.

The house comes into view, and I watch her face transform. It’s not quite awe—she’s too guarded for that—but it’s something close. The Winter estate sits on three acres of manicured grounds, all stone and glass and deliberate intimidation. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I still notice the way it looms against the sky, the way the iron gates announce that the people inside are not to be fucked with.

Fawn stares out the window as we pass through those gates, her lips parted, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

“It’s...big,” she says, and the understatement is so unexpected that Kipton actually laughs, a short surprised sound.

“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”

We pull around to the main entrance. Malcom has already texted. Bailey arrived twenty minutes ago and is currently exploring the kitchen with the enthusiasm of a kid let loose in a candy store. I watch Fawn’s face when she reads the message I show her, the relief that softens her features, the way some of the tension finally drains from her shoulders.

“She’s okay,” Fawn whispers, more to herself than to us.

“She’s fine,” I confirm. “Come on. Let’s get you settled.”

The foyer is marble and shadows, the ceiling two stories above us. Fawn stops in the center of it, turning slowly, taking in the staircase that curves upward like a promise, the artwork that costs more than her apartment building, the sheer obscene space of it all.

“This is where you live,” she says. Not a question.

“This is where you’ll live now, too,” I say.

I lead her up the stairs, Noah and Kipton following. The east wing has three guest suites, but that’s not where we’re going. I stop at a door three down from my own room, one that faces the garden, gets morning light, and has a bathroom bigger than her entire apartment.

I push the door open.

The room is huge. Four-poster bed, sitting area with a couch, windows that look out over the grounds. A walk-in closet that could fit her apartment twice over. There’s a vase of white lilies on the dresser. I don’t know who arranged that, but I assume it was one of the staff. The bed is already made with linens that probably cost more than her monthly rent.

Fawn steps inside as if she’s entering a museum and doesn’t trust herself to touch anything. She runs her hand along the edge of the dresser, her fingers tracing the polished wood with something that looks almost like fear.

“It’s yours,” I say. “As long as you need it. As long as you want it.”

She turns to look at me, and there’s a question in her eyes that she doesn’t voice. About what this means, about what we want from her, about the price tag attached to all this luxury. She’s smart enough to know nothing comes free. She’s been taught that lesson too many times to forget it now.

“There’s no catch,” I say, and the lie tastes bitter because there is a catch. There are a hundred catches, starting with the fact that I want her here for reasons that have nothing to do with her safety. “You’re safe here. That’s all.”