Page 170 of Joker

So instead, I do the only thing left to do.

I give her the truth that matters more than the fear. “But he’s not getting her,” I say. My hand slides up into her hair, holding her head steady against me while I force the words into something solid enough to stand on. “He’s not getting either of you.”

She goes still for a second. Just enough that I know she’s listening now instead of drowning.

I pull back only far enough to get a hand under her jaw and make her look at me.

Her eyes are wet. Angry. Terrified. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache because she shouldn’t have to look like this in the first place.

“Listen to me,” I say.

She nods once. Barely.

I keep going anyway. “We’ve got eyes up. We’ve got people watching. We know he’s close now, which means we stop pretending and start tightening.”

Her breathing is still uneven, but she’s listening. Processing. Trying to come back into her own body.

Good girl.

“You are not doing this by yourself,” I tell her. “Not in your head. Not in this room. Not anywhere.”

A tear slips loose before she can stop it.

I wipe it away with my thumb before it gets farther than her cheek. Then I say the part I already knew was coming the second I saw that picture. “From now on, you don’t go anywhere without me.”

Her eyes flick up to mine immediately. There’s a time, maybe even just a week ago, where she would’ve pushed. Would’ve bristled. Would’ve argued. Would’ve said she didn’t want to be handled or controlled or treated like something fragile.

I know that because I know her now.

But this time?

This time she doesn’t fight me.

She just looks at me. Really looks. And I can see the exact second the words stop sounding like control and start sounding like safety. The exact second they land the way I mean them.

Not ownership. Protection. Not cage. Shield.

Her throat works once. Then she nods.

No argument. No pride. No resistance. And somehow that yes hits harder than if she’d screamed. Because it means she’s scared enough to let me carry some of it. Because it means she trusts me enough not to weaponize the fear. Because it means I’m now responsible in a way I already was but can no longer pretend is informal.

I press my forehead to hers and let out a slow breath. “Good.”

Her hands are still fisted in my shirt. She doesn’t let go.

I don’t ask her to.

After a second, she whispers, “What about Lexi?”

That question lands right where I expected it to.

“She stays close,” I say. “No wandering. No town runs. No playgrounds. No routines that can be tracked.”

Raven closes her eyes. Nods again.

I keep going. “I’ll talk to the women too. Make sure if she’s not with one of us, somebody knows exactly where she is at all times.”

That gets a tiny flinch out of her. Not because she disagrees.