Page 8 of Wraith’s Promise

I push the door open and find her sitting on the bed, her floral bag open beside her, pulling folded clothes out and stacking them on the comforter. She's already taken off her shoes, yellow socks with little bees on them visible at the end of her jeans.

"Sorry to interrupt," I say. "Got a call. Club business tonight at eight. I'll need to leave around seven-thirty."

She looks up, nods once. "Okay. I've got her."

"First night. Want to make sure you know where everything is. Emergency numbers are on the fridge. My cell, Phoenix's cell, Judge, he's our VP, and Saint, our medic. If anything happens, you call me first. If you can't reach me, call your brother, then you go down the list."

"Got it."

"Back door's alarmed. Front door's alarmed. Windows have sensors. Code to disarm is—" I rattle off another six digits. "If the alarm goes off and you didn't trigger it, you follow the protocol I mentioned before. Mariah in my room, locked door, armed, call me."

"Dean." She says my name gently, and I realize I'm standing in her doorway probably looking slightly manic, rattling off contingencies like I'm briefing a combat squad instead of talking to someone who clearly already knows how to handle herself. "I've got this. I promise. Go do what you need to do. We'll be fine."

I do believe her, actually, which is the weird part, I believe her completely, which shouldn't be possible after knowing someone for less than two hours, but Ranger doesn't vouch for people lightly and Quinn's eyes are steady and certain and something in my gut that's usually right about these things is saying trust this.

"Okay," I say. "Okay. Dinner's at six-thirty. She'll try to negotiate dessert before vegetables. Don't fall for it."

Quinn's mouth quirks up slightly. "Noted."

"Bedtime's at eight but she'll fight it. Story helps. She's got about thirty short books. She'll probably want you to read all of them. Pick two, maximum three, or you'll be there until midnight."

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

I stop, realize I've been running through her entire evening schedule like I'm downloading a mission brief, and force myself to take an actual breath. Quinn's watching me with something that's not quite amusement and not quite sympathy: something warmer than both, something that makes me feel seen in a way I'm not entirely comfortable with.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm not usually this—"

"Protective?" She fills in the word I was avoiding. "Yeah, you are. It's fine. It's good, actually. She's lucky to have you."

Something in my throat tightens at that, and I clear it roughly. "Her mother didn't think so."

"Her mother was an idiot."

It's said so flatly that I almost laugh. "You've never met her mother."

"Don't need to. Anyone who walks away from that kid is an idiot by definition. That's just math."

And there it is again, that warmth in my chest, that sense of something settling into place that I didn't realize was unbalanced.

I've spent four years being the only person in Mariah's corner who wasn't required to be there by club loyalty or friendship. Having someone else, someone who's basically a stranger, say out loud that my daughter is worth staying for feels a lot better than I expected.

"I should let you finish unpacking," I say, because I need to get out of this room before I say something I'll regret, before I let the relief I'm feeling show too clearly on my face.

"Dean." She stops me before I can back out of the doorway. "Thank you. For trusting me with her. I know that's not easy."

"Ranger trusts you. That makes it easier."

"Still." She holds my gaze. "Thank you."

I nod, not trusting my voice to stay level, and head back downstairs to make pasta I probably won't taste because my brain's already moved on to tonight's church meeting, to whatever Phoenix needs to tell us, to the hundred different ways the Vipers might retaliate and how we're going to counter every single one.

An hour later…

Dinner is fine. Better than fine, actually.