Page 7 of Angel’s Claim

"Yeah."

"Why'd you give me this?" She touches the cut, fingers light on the leather. "This is important to you, isn’t it?"

I consider how to answer that. The truth is complicated: instinct and recognition. But complicated doesn't help her right now.

"You were cold," I say simply. "I had something that would fix it."

"That's it?"

"That's enough."

She stares at my face like she's trying to figure out if I'm lying. I let her look. I don't have anything to hide, not about this.

"Okay," she says, “Thank you.”

We sit in silence for a moment. The jukebox has switched to something slower, and the bar is starting to empty out as the night gets later. I glance at the clock behind the bar. Almost eleven.

"You got a place to stay tonight?" I ask.

Bree hesitates. "I was going to find a motel."

"There's two in town. The Millhaven Inn is the nicer one. Clean rooms, decent beds. It's close, maybe a ten-minute walk from here."

"How much?"

"Runs about a hundred and twenty a night, but I know the kid who works the desk. He'll give you the local rate, eighty."

"That's fine. I can afford it."

I don't ask how much cash she has or how long she's planning to make it last. That's her business.

"I'll walk you there," I say.

"You don't have to—"

"Yeah, I do."

She looks at me, and I see the argument forming. See her trying to figure out how to tell me she doesn't need an escort, that she can handle this on her own, that she's not some damsel who needs rescuing.

But before she can say any of it, I add, "You're wearing my cut. That makes you my responsibility. At least for tonight."

Bree opens her mouth. Closes it. Then nods.

"Okay."

I stand up and leave cash on the table for the pancakes. More than they cost, because Lou did me a favor and I don't forget those. Bree slides out of the booth, adjusting the cut so it sits more evenly on her shoulders, and grabs her backpack from under the table.

We walk out of O'Malley's together, and the night air hits cold and clean. Bree shivers slightly despite the cut, pulling it tighter around herself.

"Which way?" she asks.

I nod down the street. "This way. Straight shot, can't miss it."

We start walking. Millhaven is quiet this time of night, just a few streetlights casting orange pools on the sidewalk, the occasional car passing, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. The temperature has dropped since I first walked into O'Malley's, and I can see Bree's breath misting in the air.

She's still cold, even with my cut.

For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. The only sounds are our footsteps on the pavement and the distant hum of a truck engine somewhere on the main road.