Page 27 of Saber's Claim
She presses her fingers to the page, but I don’t need her gratitude, because what she’s doing with the gift is better than any words.
I pour two cups of coffee and sit across from her, handing her a cup.
“Nitro’s handled. The Warriors aren’t coming for you.”
She sets the pencil down. “Is it over?”
“For now.” I’m not going to lie to her. “It’s enough.”
She wraps both hands around the mug and nods. I can see her processing—not the danger, but what comes next. The practical questions she’s been carrying since the night I put her on my bike.
I go first.
“Your apartment. I paid the rent for the next three months.”
Her head comes up fast. “Why?”
“You haven’t worked. I didn’t want you to lose your home. If you want to go back to it, the key is where you left it.” I don’t look away. “But I’d rather you come to the ranch to live with me.”
“I don’t want to depend on a man,” she says. “Not again.”
There it is. The wall. I can see it go up behind her eyes. A man paying her rent. A man telling her where to live. Kyle’s playbook with a different cover.
“I know.”
“Saber, I mean it. I need to be able to take care of myself if I ever need to.”
She’s not wrong. And I’m not Kyle. So I’ll prove it the only way that counts.
“Bank account.” I set my coffee down. “Your name. Your money. I’ll put in enough to cover twelve months of whatever you need, and I won’t touch it. No joint access. No monitoring. You spend it, save it, or light it on fire. I don’t give a fuck what you do with it. I don’t get a say.”
She’s quiet. Her thumb traces the rim of the mug.
“I’ll owe you.”
“You won’t.”
“That’s not how money works.”
“You want to work, work. But not because you have to.” I lean forward. “What do you actually want to do?”
She looks at the sketchbook. At the charcoal smudges on her fingertips. Then back at me.
“Marketing.” It comes out like a confession. “I wanted to go to college. Study marketing, maybe design. I was eighteen when I moved in with Kyle, and he told me I didn’t need school because he’d take care of everything.” She swallows. “So, I didn’t go.”
Six years. Six years that piece of shit stole from her.
“Then go,” I say. “I’ll cover it. Tuition, books, whatever you need. You get the degree. You build something that’s yours. And if you wake up one morning and decide you don’t want the ranch, or the club, or me—you’ve got the education to walk out and never look back.”
Her eyes are wet. She blinks it away, but I caught it.
“Why would you give me the ability to leave you?”
“I don’t want you here because you’re stuck. I want you here because you chose it.”
She stares at me for a long time. The common room is empty. Duke slipped out at some point, cards and all, and I didn’t notice.
“I want to go to school.” Quiet. Like saying it out loud might break it.
