Page 203 of Joker

He studies me for one long second. Then nods once. “Okay.”

I take another breath and force myself to keep going. “If he thinks he’s embarrassed, he gets sloppy,” I say. “That’s the biggest thing. More than anger. More than rejection. Humiliation is what makes him reckless.”

Joker’s thumbs drag once over the outside of my knees. Gentle. Absent. Careful.

“How?”

“How what?”

“How does he feel humiliated enough to move?”

I swallow hard. Because I know the answer to that too. And I hate it. “He has to think I’m slipping,” I say. “Not physically. Emotionally.”

His entire body stills.

I can practically feel the protest rising off him before he even speaks.

“Raven—”

“Listen first.” The words come out firmer than I mean them to, but he lets me have them.

So I keep going. “He doesn’t just want me back. He wants me broken enough to come back wrong. Small. Scared. Sorry.” My voice shakes once, but I force it steady. “If he thinks I’m unraveling, if he thinks I’m doubting the club or doubting you or starting to feel unsafe enough to crack, he’ll take that bait every time.”

His jaw locks. Hard. I can actually see the anger move through him.

Not at me. At the shape of what I’m describing. At the fact that I know this because I had to survive it long enough to learn it.

“I hate that you know him this well,” he says. The words are rough. Low. Honest.

I hold his gaze. “Then let it mean something.”

That one hangs between us. Heavy. Painful. True. Because that’s what this is. Not weakness. Not me reopening old wounds for no reason.

Meaning. Purpose. Something useful carved out of what he did to me.

Joker looks away for half a second, like he’s trying to get his temper back under control before it eats the room alive. Then he looks back. “If I use any of this,” he says carefully, “it is not because I’m putting you in the middle of it.”

“I know.”

“No.” His hands tighten just slightly on my knees, enough to make sure I hear him. “I need you to really know that.”

I go still.

His eyes lock on mine. “You are not getting near him,” he says.

Every word lands like stone.

“You are not stepping foot anywhere he could breathe the same air as you. You are not part of the confrontation. You arenot part of the extraction. You are not close enough for him to even think he has a shot at touching you again.”

My breath catches.

Not because I feel controlled. Because I feel…seen.Protected in a way that doesn’t make me smaller. That distinction matters so much it nearly hurts.

“I’m not asking to be,” I say quietly.

His jaw flexes once. “Good.”

Then he stands. Slowly. Deliberately. Still watching me like he’s not entirely convinced I’m not going to do something stupid out of fear and adrenaline and maternal panic.