Page 17 of Phoenix's Rising
She shouldn't have to endure this. Shouldn't have to stand in a bedroom discussing the war that's about to consume us all.
But here we are.
"Sit," I say, gentler now. "You look like you're about to fall over."
She glances at the bed, then back at me, and I see the hesitation. The ingrained wariness of being alone in a bedroom with a man who could hurt her if he wanted.
Cole taught her that. Taught her to measure every interaction by the potential for violence, to calculate danger in the set of shoulders and the tone of voice.
I hate him for it.
"I won't touch you," I say. "Won't come near you unless you ask. You're safe, Ivy. I promise."
She studies me for a long moment, and I let her look. Let her see whatever she needs to see to feel safe. After a moment, she moves to the bed and sits on the edge, her hands folded in her lap.
I finally step fully into the room, giving her space. I lean against the dresser across from the bed, crossing my arms, and take the opportunity to really look at her.
She's beautiful.
The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. I shouldn't be noticing how pretty she is, shouldn't be cataloging the way her short auburn hair frames her face or how green her eyes are in the morning light. She's a woman under my protection, a victim fleeing abuse, clearly years younger than me and vulnerable in ways that make any attraction completely inappropriate.
But I'm noticing anyway.
She's curvy in a way that makes me think softness, comfort, warmth. The kind of woman you could hold and feel safe with, feel grounded by. Her skin is pale where it's not bruised, dusted with freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her mouth is pressed tight with stress, but I can imagine it relaxing, smiling, laughing.
I can imagine a lot of things I have no business imagining, like how she's the type of woman gods would go to war for.
The thought is ridiculous, melodramatic, completely out of proportion to reality. But standing here in this small roomwith morning light filtering through the curtains, watching her try to be brave despite the fear written across every feature, I understand it.
Understand why ancient kings burned cities over women like her. Why men throughout history have fought and died for the chance to protect something beautiful, something worth protecting.
It's not about possession. Not about ownership or control or any of the toxic things Cole represented. It's about the simple, fundamental human need to stand between something precious and the darkness that wants to destroy it.
Ivy is precious. Not because she's mine. She's not, will never be, the age gap alone makes that impossible, but because she's a person who deserves safety and peace and a life free from fear. Because she's been hurt and is still fighting, still surviving, still standing.
Because when I look at her, I see everything the Iron Phoenix was built to protect.
Even if I need to get my head straight. I need to stop noticing how the light catches in her hair or how her hands tremble slightly despite her brave words. She's not here for me to admire. She's here because she needs help, and I'm the president of the club that promised to provide it.
That's all this is. All this can be.
"Can I ask you something?" Ivy's voice breaks through my thoughts.
I blink, realizing I've been staring. "Anything."
She's quiet for a moment, and I expect her to ask about the war, about what happens next, about the specifics of our defensive plan. Instead, she asks something completely different.
"Have you always wanted to be a biker?"
The question catches me off guard.
"Yes," I say after a moment. "Because of my parents."
"They were bikers?"
"My father was president of the Vipers. Back when it was still a good club, before Demon took over. Back when it stood for something worth standing for." The old grief rises up. "He believed a motorcycle club could be a force for good in the world. A real brotherhood, bound by integrity and honor instead of violence and greed."
"What happened to him?"
