Chapter 2
TWO
RIOT
The hospital doors slide shut behind us. The sound is soft and automatic, but her shoulders jump before she forces them down, her jaw tightening like she’s annoyed at herself for reacting. I don’t call it out. Instead, I shrug out of my jacket and step in front of her.
“Put this on,” I say.
She shakes her head, dismissing me. “I am fine.”
“Put it on,” I all but order.
She hesitates for half a second before sliding her arms through the sleeves.
I adjust the collar at her shoulders without thinking about it, then drop my hands and fall into step beside her.
I slow my pace enough to stay close without crowding her and shift so I’m between her and the parking lot where people cut through without looking, engines idling too long, nobody paying attention to who they brush past.
Wind pushes across the concrete and she pulls my jacket tighter around her, the sleeves hanging past her hands, her gaze lowered not in submission but in calculation as she tracks movement, shadows, shoes, direction changes, every set of footsteps getting logged without her making a show of it.
I unlock my truck with a chirp and she studies it before stepping closer, eyes moving across the interior, dashboard, floorboard, back seat, under the seat, and I stand there with the door open and my hand on the frame so she doesn’t feel rushed, letting her take whatever time she needs before she lowers herself into the seat with careful, controlled movements and clicks the seatbelt into place.
I close her door gently, more aware of the force than I ever am, then walk around and slide behind the wheel, starting the engine and pulling out of the lot toward the east side where the safe house waits with cameras, reinforced locks, and a schedule Mason already organized, which is the right move, the predictable move, and I follow it for the first few miles without saying anything.
Traffic builds near the intersection and she tracks every vehicle that drifts too close to our lane, a motorcycle ripping past loud enough to make her flinch before she catches herself and lifts her chin like she refuses to let the reflex own her.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, keeping my tone even, doing my best not to spook her.
“I am fine,” she replies without hesitation.
Fine isn’t accurate and we both know it, but she doesn’t look at me when she says it, so I let it go.
The turnoff toward the safe house comes up faster than I want it to, my blinker clicking on as I shift lanes and picture her stepping into that house with a rotation of club brothers and their wives and a dozen well-meaning questions waiting for her, picture her standing in the middle of it and enduring the attention because she doesn’t know how to refuse without apologizing.
The clicking fills the cab and my hand tightens on the steering wheel before I straighten it at the last second and drive past the exit, the blinker cutting off as soon as I correct the wheel.
“You were turning,” she says, watching me.
“I was.”
“Where are we going now?”
“Somewhere quieter.”
She studies my profile for a long second. “Is it safe?”
“Yes.” The answer comes easy because that part isn’t up for debate.
My phone buzzes against the dash with Mason’s name lighting up the screen and I let it ring out before texting at the next red light.
Me: Change of plan. She’s staying with me.
Mason: The safe house is ready for her.
Me: I know. She’s still staying with me.
Mason: You sure about this?
I glance at her and see her fidget in her seat. She watches the side mirror, then the rearview, then the car drifting too close in the next lane.
Me: Yeah.
There’s a longer pause this time before the response comes through.
Mason: If you were anyone else this shit wouldn’t fly.
That’s an agreement, even if he’ll have something to say about it later, and I toss the phone back onto the dash as the light turns green.
“Did I misunderstand something?” she asks after a few minutes.
“What do you mean?”
“You were going somewhere else. I do not want to create inconvenience.”
“You’re not an inconvenience,” I tell her, my grip tightening on the wheel before I ease it.
“You have already done more than required.”
“Nobody required me to do anything, ptichka.” Little bird. I don’t know why I say it. It just fits.
She looks at me slowly, real surprise there this time. “You know that word?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “You look like you’re ready to fly off at any second.” I’m quiet for a beat, then add, “My mother is Russian.”
That makes her turn toward me fully. “She taught you?”
“Da.” Yes.
A smile ghosts her face. “How much do you speak?”
“Enough.”
She keeps looking at me a second longer before facing forward again.
“That is… unexpected.” She goes quiet after that, and it isn’t the tense kind of silence.
It’s thoughtful. She watches the road ahead, hands resting in her lap.
Traffic shifts around us and she follows it without flinching, shoulders steady now beneath my jacket.
A few minutes pass before she speaks again. “You could have left me at the hospital,” she says evenly. “Many people would do this.”
“I wasn’t leaving you there alone,” I reply, not looking at her because I don’t want to see doubt in her face.
Another mile passes before she speaks again. “He will not come?”
She means Volkov. “No.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s dead.”
Her body goes completely still. “I understand,” she says after a moment, and there’s no panic in it, just acceptance.
We pull up to my gate and the system scans my plate before the metal slides open, and she watches the mechanism closely, following the timing of the lock disengaging and the way the panels move.
The house comes into view as I drive through, lights on along the perimeter, cameras placed where they can’t be missed if you’re looking for them, and I park in the driveway before cutting the engine.
“You don’t have to get out yet,” I tell her. “Take a minute. Get your bearings.”
She studies the house, slow and thorough, eyes moving over the gate, the corners, the lights along the driveway. After a moment she turns back to me, and there’s something different in her expression. Less guarded.
“I trust you, medved,” she says.
My brow lifts before I can stop it. “Bear?”
She shrugs one shoulder, and there’s the faintest curve to her mouth. “You are large. You are quiet. You look like you would break someone’s spine if they annoyed you.”
“That your official criteria?”
“It is sufficient.” Then a soft laugh slips out of her before she can swallow it, and it changes her whole face for a second.
I step out before she can open her door and walk around the front of the truck, pulling it open for her. “Easy, ptichka,” I mutter, more habit than anything. I hold my hand out and she looks at it, then at me, one brow lifting just slightly.
“Careful, medved,” she says under her breath, and there’s humor there now.
I snort once despite myself. “Get out of the truck.”
She places her fingers in my hand anyway. Her grip is light but sure, not clinging, just steady enough to let me guide her down. I don’t squeeze. I don’t overdo it. I just give her balance and let go once her boots hit the driveway.
The gate slides shut behind us and she turns her head to watch it, tracking the movement until the lock clicks into place. She studies the mechanism like she’s memorizing it, then looks at the house, taking in the lights, the cameras, the line of the roof.
“You live like this always?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
She nods once, filing that away. She steps in beside me as we walk toward the front door, shoulders still tight but not as high as before, her eyes moving over the yard one more time before I unlock the house. Mason will have something to say about it later. I don’t care enough to rethink it.
I open the door and step back. “After you.”
She walks in without hesitation this time. I close the door behind us and lock it out of habit, setting the alarm before I turn back to her. She’s standing just inside the entry, not frozen, just waiting, taking in the layout like she’s mapping it in her head.
“This is the main floor,” I tell her. “Kitchen’s through here.”
She follows me without hesitation, steps quiet, controlled. The kitchen lights flick on overhead and she scans it the same way she scanned the yard. Counters. Windows. Back door. I move to the fridge and pull it open.
“Eat whatever you want,” I say. “There’s water, juice, leftovers. Pantry’s stocked. Coffee’s there.” I point toward the machine. “Tea’s in the cabinet above the stove.”
She walks closer, opens the fridge herself, not asking permission. I respect that. She studies what’s inside, then closes it gently.
“You cook?” she asks.
“Sometimes.”
She glances at the stove, the knives on the magnetic strip, the dish rack by the sink. “It is… organized.”
“Yeah.”
She nods once, like that answers more than I said.
I walk her down the short hallway. “Bathroom’s here.” I push the door open and step aside. “Towels are clean. Cabinet’s stocked. If you need anything, tell me.”
She moves inside, eyes shifting to the shower, the window, the mirror. She turns the faucet on briefly, testing the pressure, then shuts it off.
“You live alone,” she says again, quieter now.
“Yeah.”
She nods and steps back into the hall.
“Guest room’s this way.”
I open the door and flip the light on. There are a few boxes stacked against one wall. Old files. Some spare parts I haven’t taken to the shop yet. Nothing personal. The bed’s made, sheets clean, pillows fluffed. I changed them before I left for the hospital.
“There’s some stuff in here,” I say, gesturing toward the boxes. “I’ll move it if it bothers you.”
She walks in slowly, running her hand over the edge of the dresser, then the nightstand. She presses down on the mattress like she’s testing it, then looks at the window, checking the lock.