Page 5 of Razor’s Redemption

I just invited a man whose name I don't even know into my house because two strangers tried to rob me and he appeared out of nowhere and took them both down in under fifteen seconds and I'm still shaking and I didn't want to be alone and what the hell was I thinking?

"Desmond," he says from behind me. His voice is low. "Desmond Cole. But most people call me Razor."

*Razor.*

Of course they do.

Mom sets down her book slowly, her eyes cataloging every visible inch of him. The tattoos covering both arms, the one creeping up his throat, the scar along his jaw, the way he's standing perfectly still like he's trying not to spook us. Her gaze lands on me, and I see the question forming.

"He just saved me from getting mugged," I say before she can ask. "Two guys tried to grab my purse near the hardware store. He—" I gesture vaguely at him. "He stopped them. Gave me a ride home."

I don't mention the motorcycle. Mom already looks like she's trying to decide whether to thank him or call the police.

"You're hurt," Mom says, standing up. She's at my side in three steps, pulling my arm toward the light, examining the bruise that's already purple and ugly across my forearm where that man grabbed me. "Daisy, honey…"

"I'm fine. Really. It's just a bruise."

Mom looks at Razor again. This time her expression softens slightly. "Thank you," she says. "For helping her."

"Yes, ma'am."

*Ma'am.* He called my mother *ma'am* like he's military or something, standing there with prison tattoos, a name like Razor and a voice that sounds like gravel and honey at the same time.

I don't know what to do with any of this.

"I invited him in for coffee," I say. "I hope that's okay."

It's my house too. Well, technically it's Mom's house, but I pay half the bills even if my name isn't on anything. Besides, I'm twenty-eight years old, and I shouldn't have to ask permission. But I do anyway, because this is her space and her safety too, and I just brought a complete stranger into it at one in the morning.

Mom looks between us for a long moment. Then she nods.

"Of course it's okay," she says. She picks up her mug and her book. "I was just heading to bed anyway."

She's lying. But she's giving us space, giving me room to figure out whatever this is, and I love her fiercely for it even as panic starts crawling up my throat.

What am I doing?

Mom pauses next to Razor on her way out. She's a full foot shorter than him, has to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

"You hurt my daughter or my granddaughter," she says quietly, "and I don't care how many tattoos you have or how scary you look. I'll make you regret it."

"Yes, ma'am," he says again. "Understood."

Mom nods once, satisfied, and leaves.

He's still standing near the door, hands loose at his sides, not moving deeper into the house. Waiting for permission, I realize. Waiting for me to tell him it's okay.

"You can sit," I say, gesturing toward the table. "I'll… I'll make coffee."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

That's not entirely true. What I want is to crawl into bed and sleep for sixteen hours straight. What I want is to rewind tonight and take a different route home, or leave work five minutes earlier, or do literally anything that means I didn't almost get robbed and have to be rescued by a stranger who looks like he could break someone in half without trying.

But I also don't want to be alone right now. Don't want to go to my room and lie in the dark replaying those fifteen seconds over and over, feeling that hand on my arm, hearing my own voice come out high and scared in a way I haven't heard since Luna's father walked out and I realized I was going to do this entirely alone.

So, I make coffee.