Page 127 of Blades Out
She paused mid-reach for a sweater. Nodded without looking at me.
"Marsha. She was my caseworker when..." She trailed off. Swallowed. "When I was younger. She still checks in sometimes."
The words came out carefully. Like admitting vulnerability cost her something.
I nodded once. Didn't push for details I already knew too well.
The woman who'd pulled her from that apartment after I'd called it in. Who'd made sure she had somewhere safe to go when the police finished taking statements. Who'd kept her out of her father's reach for years.
Someone who'd actually helped her.
Unlike me—who'd walked away that night and tried to forget her face.
My jaw tightened. "Good," I managed. "She should know you're safe."
I grabbed her duffel before she could. Slung it over my shoulder with one smooth motion.
"Leave your car at the arena."
She blinked. Opened her mouth to argue—I watched the impulse cross her face—then closed it again.
"Why?"
"Because if someone's watching, they know your plates." I kept my voice even. Matter-of-fact. Not negotiable. "Safer if they don't know where you're staying."
Her throat worked. She nodded once, quick and tight. "Okay."
Smart girl. She understood threat assessment better than most people twice her age. Understood it because she'd lived it, because survival had taught her to read danger signs most people never noticed.
I hated that she had to be this smart.
We walked to my truck in silence. I stayed between her and the parking lot—muscle memory, tactical positioning, instinct I couldn't suppress even if I wanted to. Her footsteps stayed close. Not touching, but near enough I could feel her presence like heat against my shoulder.
I opened the passenger door. She climbed in without a word.
The drive started quiet. Engine noise. Tires on pavement. The low hum of the heater cutting through November cold.
Her breathing filled the spaces between sounds—small, controlled, trying too hard to seem normal. I tracked each inhale without meaning to. Counted the rhythm. Noted when it stuttered or caught.
My knuckles went white against the steering wheel. Every red light felt like punishment.
I wanted her behind locked doors. Wanted walls between her and the world. Wanted her somewhere no one could touch her, somewhere I could stand between her and every threat that had ever made her pack a bag in ten minutes flat.
The rational part of my brain whispered warnings about control, about boundaries, about the difference between protection and possession.
I ignored it.
A light turned red ahead. I eased to a stop, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
She shifted in the passenger seat. Just a small movement—adjusting her seatbelt, maybe, or pulling her jacket tighter—but I registered it with the same hyper-awareness that made me a good coach. The kind of focus that noticed everything, catalogued every detail, tracked movement like my life depended on it.
Because right now, hers might.
The apartment swallowed her whole.
I unlocked the door, and she stepped through, duffel still clutched in both hands like she might need to run at any second. Her footsteps echoed against dark hardwood—the kind that cost more than most people's cars. Engineered for durability, maintained with obsessive precision. Not a scuff mark anywhere.
She stopped three feet inside and just stared.
