Page 43 of Twisted Steel

Harper exhales, rubbing both hands over her face.“I am too tired for this conversation.”

“Then get some sleep.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

The confession is small, quiet, and nothing like her usual bite.And it guts me.

I step back from the door.“I’ll be right here.”

Her eyes search mine.“You really mean that?”

“Yes.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“What if Savage calls?”

“He can walk here.”

A laugh slips out of her, but it’s soft and frayed, but real.My chest does something I don’t have a name for.

She studies me for another long second, then steps inside.“Leave the door cracked.”

My pulse kicks once.“You sure?”

“No,” she says.“But do it anyway.”

She disappears into the room, and I leave the door cracked.Then I sit on the floor outside it, back against the wall, knees bent, gun within reach.

I have stood watch outside rooms before.Guarded presidents.Prisoners.Traitors.Club brothers bleeding through long nights while we waited to see if the doctors were better than the bullets.But this is different.

Because through the crack in the door, I can hear Harper moving.Water running in the small sink.A drawer opening.The soft thump of boots hitting the floor, and fabric shifting.

I stare straight ahead.I am not a good man, but I can be disciplined.Inside the room, the bed creaks, then silence follows.

Her voice is softer when she speaks.“Steel?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Which part?”

“That nobody says my name unless they’re ready to choke on it.”

My fingers flex around my knee.“Yes.”

“That’s psychotic.”

“Yes, it is.”I can admit that much.

There’s a pause before she speaks again, barely above a whisper, “It also helped.”

I close my eyes, just for a second.That’s the thing no one tells you about violence.People condemn it until they need a wall, until the dark comes knocking on the door, until the phone rings and a man laughs about making healers bleed.

Then violence becomes a language they can understand.Protection they can feel.A monster at the door that no one can get past.