Page 21 of My Protective Biker

Set them both on the table and sit down because my shoulder is starting to make standing a problem.

The shower is still running.

I drink my coffee and stare at the cup I poured for her and try not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.

She could decide the danger is too real. That last night was too much. That getting shot at four in the morning is not something she signed up for and she's not interested in signing up for it now.

She could decide she doesn't want to risk losing herself again.

That entering my world means accommodating the club and the violence and the illegality in ways that are too close to what she left Harrisburg to escape.

She could decide three days is too fast. That instalove is a romance novel concept and not something rational adults actually do.

All of those would be reasonable decisions and I wouldn't blame her for any of them.

But sitting here alone in my kitchen, I realize I'll regret it for a long time if she walks away.

Twenty years I've been managing risk, keeping my world small, not giving Marrow leverage points to exploit, building a life that functions through control and discipline and not wanting things I can't have.

And it worked.

Kept Zoe safe. Kept the club stable. Kept me functional.

It also kept me alone.

I used to think that was necessary. That being alone was the smart tactical choice, the way to minimize vulnerabilities and maintain control.

But Zoe was kidnapped last night regardless. The danger found her anyway, not because I pursued Carina but because of who I am. The threat is constant whether I'm alone or not.

Which means keeping distance from people doesn't actually eliminate risk. It just means I'm carrying it by myself.

The shower is still running and my coffee is getting cold and I'm sitting here processing something I should have processed years ago.

Wanting something for myself is not selfish. Zoe is twenty years old and grown and she doesn't need me the way she did when she was six weeks old.

She needs me to be her father still, needs me to show up and keep promises and be present. But she doesn't need me to sacrifice my entire life for her anymore.

She needs me to be okay. To have a life that's more than just work and the club and twenty years of deliberate isolation.

And maybe letting someone care for me isn't weakness. Maybe it's just letting myself be human for the first time in two decades.

I drain my coffee and pour another cup. Look at the clock. Eight forty-five.

The shower is still running.

I think about going to check on her and decide against it. She asked for time to think and I need to give her that, even though waiting is harder than I expected it to be.

I've been making decisions for twenty years. Tactical decisions, strategic decisions, life-or-death decisions.

And most of them I could control the outcome through planning and execution and following through.

This one I can't control. I can lay out what I want and be honest about what it means, but I can't make her choose me. Can't convince her or push her or do anything except wait and see what she decides.

And that lack of control is sitting in my chest sharp and uncomfortable.

My phone buzzes. Text from Clint.

Zoe's doing okay. Sydney's got her. She wants to stay here a bit longer. That work?