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“Speak for yourself,” Harper mutters. “I date perfectly reasonable men who occasionally get shot.”

“You dated a man who accidentally tased himself,” Raven says. “And now you’ve tied yourself to Steel.”

“He was interesting. And Steel is better than most, even with the damn scowl.”

“He was an idiot.” She rolls her eyes. “And I suppose you could do worse than Steel.”

Harper crosses her arms, then glances at me. “The point is, we’ve all made questionable choices. At least yours is hot.”

“Harper.” Mama M’s tone is exasperated.

“What? He is. Objectively. I’m a medical professional. I can assess physical attributes.”

“You’re a menace,” Raven says.

“Also true.” Harper grins and steals a piece of bacon from my plate. “So. You’re staying?”

The question isn’t about geography. It’s about loyalty. About belonging. About choosing a side and burning the bridge behind you.

I look at each of them. Raven, fierce and guarded, with her knife and her sarcasm and her refusal to pretend the world is anything other than what it is. Harper, sharp and blunt and unapologetically herself. Mama M, with her reading glasses and her breakfast plate and her quiet, immovable strength.

“I’m staying,” I say.

Raven nods. One sharp dip of her chin. “Then you’re one of us. Which means you fight like one of us, you bleed like one of us, and you don’t keep secrets from us. Clear?”

“Except the good secrets,” Harper adds. “Like where you hid the good whiskey.”

“There’s no good whiskey,” Mama M says. “These animals drink everything.”

“That’s because you hide the good stuff in the medicine cabinet,” Raven says.

“How did you...” Mama M stops, recalibrates. “That’s beside the point.”

I’m smiling. Actually smiling. The kind that pulls at muscles I haven’t used in so long they’ve atrophied. It feels strange on my face. Fragile.

Harper notices. Her expression softens, just for a second, before the sarcasm returns. “Don’t get sappy on us. We’ve still got to interrogate you about your weapon preferences.”

“She carries a switchblade,” Raven says. “I saw it.”

“Switchblade’s fine for close quarters,” Harper says. “But if you want range...”

“I can shoot.” I cut in. “Better than most of your brothers, probably.”

Raven’s eyebrow hits her hairline. “Bold claim.”

“It’s not a claim. It’s a fact.” I meet her eyes. “Samuel made sure of it. If I’m going to be a weapon, he wanted me to be the best one in the room.”

Something passes between Raven and me. An understanding. A recognition of shared damage—the kind that comes from being shaped by someone else’s hands into something sharp.

“Then we’ll see what you’ve got,” Raven says. “After the war.”

“After the war,” I agree.

Mama M refills my coffee without asking. “You know,” she says, settling back in her chair, “I’ve seen a lot of women come through these doors. Running from something. Running toward something. Most of them don’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“Because this life isn’t for everyone. It takes a certain kind of woman to love a man who might not come home. To sleep next to a killer and trust him with her heart.” She looks at me over her glasses. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’ve already made that choice and you’re just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.”