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“You ready to get out of here?” I ask.

“Oh, I, uh, probably need to call Grey and check in.”

“Already done.”

I’ve texted Grey updates every few minutes so he knows the danger is over and there’s been one loss of life, but there’s no point in him coming down here to see it for himself. Not when the rest of his pack leadership is already here doing it for him. Not when it could be another trap from Ramsey to draw him out.

“Oh.” She blinks, her gaze tracking where Crow and Claire are getting into Razor’s car. “Well, then we’ll just head back to the estate so we can brief him.”

My phone dings. “It’s Grey. He says you should go home. Get some rest.”

I show her the text because I know she’ll see it as an order and therefore be more likely to comply.

Sure enough, she sighs. “Okay.”

“I’ll drive.” I stride for her car before she can argue.

Surprisingly, she lets me tuck her into the passenger seat for a second time today.

I shoot another text off to Marcus, ignoring the ones from him about Lovaro’s demands, and then climb in.

She doesn’t say a word while I drive. I don’t push. I've learned enough about Mia Reyes in the last forty-eight hours to know that silence from her isn’t disconnection. She’s processing. Running the incident backward and forward and sideways, looking for the variable she missed, the call she should have made differently, the version of events where Bobby goes home tonight.

She won’t find it. There isn’t one. Ramsey made that choice, not her. But she’s not ready to hear that yet, so I drive and leave her to her thoughts.

The city scrolls past the windows in amber and neon as the sun dips behind the mountains. A group of people stands at a crosswalk, laughing at something. I watch Mia study them with an expression that isn’t quite envy and isn’t quite grief; it’s something in between. The look of someone who protects normal so that other people can have it, knowing they’ve put themselves outside of it in the process.

My wolf notices more than just the look on her face. He homes in on the set of her shoulders. The way her hands are clenched in her lap, like she’s working hard to keep them still. The faint smell of smoke that clings to her hair despite clearly not being where the worst of it was.

She’s holding herself together with both hands and doing it so well that anyone who didn't know her would think she was fine.

I know her.

Not well enough. Not yet. But I aim to change that.

“Claire’s going to blame herself,” she says at last. She glances at me briefly. “She went back for him. Bobby.”

“That’ll weigh on her for a while,” I say.

“A year ago, she probably wouldn’t have tried to save him,” she says.

“You saved her,” I say. It’s not a question. I already know from the protectiveness in her eyes.

“Some asshole tried to rape her. One of Franco’s inner circle. The guys and I intervened.”

The way she says that last word speaks volumes. I don’t bother to ask whether the perp is alive. I know he’s not.

“You do that a lot?” I ask instead.

She cuts me a look. “What?”

“Intervene.”

“More than I should have to,” she says grimly. Then she looks back out the window, lost in her own thoughts again.

The rest of the drive is quiet. My wolf settles into a particular sort of peace of being in the right place even when the circumstances are wrong. That seems to be our story so far.

When I pull up outside her building, I don’t reach for the door, but I do cut the engine. For several beats, we sit in silence, unmoving.