Page 3 of Wraith’s Promise

The door opens, and I have approximately half a second to reconcile the woman standing on my porch with the mental image Ranger's description built in my head before Mariah shoves past my leg like a small tank and plants herself directly in front of our guest.

"Are you the babysitter?" my daughter demands, no preamble, because Mariah has never bothered with preamble once in her life.

"I am," the woman says, crouching down to Mariah's eye level without hesitation, which is the first thing I notice about her. Not nervous. Not stiff the way most strangers get around kids they don't know yet, all smiles and awkward distance. She just drops right down like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I'm Quinn. What's your name?"

"Mariah. This is Captain." She holds up the stuffed rabbit, ragged around one ear from four years of love, and Quinn stares at it with the kind of seriousness you'd give an actual military officer.

"Captain," Quinn repeats, nodding slowly. "Good name. Strong name."

"He protects me at night."

"Smart rabbit."

I stand in my own doorway feeling faintly useless, watching this exchange happen without me, and I take the extra few seconds to actually look at the woman my brother's best friend vouched for with his whole chest.

She's not what I pictured. Ranger told me she could disable a grown man in under ten seconds, told me she spent years in combat zones doing things he wouldn't elaborate on even when I pushed, and some part of my brain built an image of someone hard-edged, tightly wound, maybe intimidating in the way Brick is intimidating.

Instead, there's a woman in a soft yellow t-shirt with her hair in two braids, freckles scattered across her nose, a small white scar on her chin catching the afternoon light. She's got some curve to her, soft in the places where a body relaxes after it stops being pushed to its absolute limit every day, and there's a warmth radiating off her that makes the tension in my shoulders ease slightly before I've even said a word to her.

But then she looks up at me, and I catch it: the calculation behind her eyes, quick and thorough, checking exits, checking me, checking the porch behind her, all in the space of a glance before the softness slides back over her expression like a curtain falling into place. It's the same thing I do without thinking. The same thing every one of my brothers does. I recognize it because I live it.

Ranger wasn't lying. Whatever's under that yellow T-shirt and those pigtails, it isn't harmless.

"Dean," I say, and stick out my hand. "Wraith, if you're gonna be around the club much, but Dean's fine at the house."

She stands, takes my hand, and her grip is firm, "Quinn Nash. Ranger's sister."

"I gathered." I step back, holding the door wider. "Come in. Please."

She wipes her feet on the mat before crossing the threshold, which is such a small, ordinary courtesy that it shouldn't mean anything, but something in me relaxes another notch anyway. Mariah trails after her like she's been waiting her whole five years for exactly this person to show up, chattering about Captain, about her room, about the drawing she made yesterday of a dragon that's actually pretty good for a five-year-old, and Quinn answers every single thread of it without once looking like she's humoring a child.

She looks genuinely interested. Genuinely delighted, even, in a way that catches somewhere behind my ribs and holds.

I lead them both into the kitchen, because it's the most normal room in the house, the one place that doesn't have a gun safe visible or a police scanner murmuring low in the background. I gesture Quinn toward a chair at the table and she sits, setting her floral bag down beside her feet, and I notice, because I notice everything, it's what I do, it's the job my brain does whether I want it to or not, that she positions the chair so her back isn't fully to the door.

"Ranger tell you much?" I ask, pulling my own chair out across from her.

"Enough. Single dad, five-year-old daughter, club's at war with another club, things are dangerous right now and getting more dangerous." She folds her hands on the table, meets my eyes directly. "He didn't tell me details. Said that was your call, if you wanted to share them."

I appreciate that more than I expect to. Most people either want to know everything or pretend they don't want to know anything while clearly fishing for it. Quinn just states the facts and waits, patient, unbothered, letting me decide how much of my life I hand her.

"Vipers," I say. "Rival club. Used to be run by decent people, now it's run by a man who trafficks women and kills anyone who objects. We've been at war with them for a while now. Two days ago, we hit one of their warehouses, pulled six women out of it. They know we hit them. They don't know where the women went, but they're regrouping, and when a club like that regroups, it means retaliation."

Mariah has climbed into the chair beside Quinn without asking, swinging her feet, Captain clutched against her chest, apparently unbothered by the topic of her father's war because she's heard versions of it before, filtered down to age-appropriate language.

Kids adapt to whatever normal you hand them. It's one of the things that keeps me up at night, wondering what her normal is costing her that I can't see yet.

"So, you need someone who can actually protect her," Quinn says. "Not just watch her."

"Both," I say. "I need someone who can keep her entertained, keep her fed, keep her routine as normal as possible while everything around her is not normal. And I need someone who, if it comes to it, can put a body between her and a threat and win that fight."

Quinn's expression doesn't so much as flicker. "I can do both."

"Ranger says you can disarm a man twice your size in under ten seconds."

"Ranger exaggerates sometimes." A small smile pulls at one corner of her mouth. "It's usually closer to seven."

I laugh before I mean to, surprised out of myself, and Mariah looks between us like she's trying to figure out the joke so she can laugh too.