Chapter 4
Saint
My father used to tell me that anger was a sin. That it opened doors for the devil. I always thought he was full of it, until I learned to channel anger into something useful.
Anger kept me alive overseas.
Anger stopped a van full of trafficked women from slipping past my checkpoint.
Anger is what makes me calm now, instead of punching holes in these log walls.
The message on Nadia’s phone is a threat, but it’s also an opportunity. It tells me her stepfather still has resources. It tells me he doesn’t know exactly where she is. It tells me we need to tighten our perimeter.
I call Havoc first. He answers on the second ring.
“Problem?” No preamble.
“Got a text from Nadia’s stepfather to her new number,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “He says he has friends everywhere.”
Havoc grunts. “Fucking Richard Smith. Probably bluffing. He’s been trying to mess with Viper’s head all week. Still, we tighten things up. Stay put at the safehouse tonight. Ghost is working angles near the Wolves’ place, keeping eyes on their movement. We’ll be ready if they make a move.”
“Copy.”
“How’s she holding up?”
My eyes stray to the bedroom door. I can hear her breathing slow into sleep.
“Better than I expected.”
“You good?” Havoc asks, and I know he’s not asking about my ability to fight.
“Always.”
I hang up and call Viper next. He answers with a growl.
“Tell me she’s safe,” he snaps.
“She’s safe. Sleeping. Got a message from that asshole we put away.”
There’s a string of curses, then a long inhale.
“I’ll kill him,” Viper says softly. “He’s behind bars, and I’ll kill him anyway.”
“We’ll handle it. Focus on planning with Ghost. If the Wolves make a move tonight, we need you sharp.”
“Copy. And Saint?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s important to Ava. That makes her family. Thanks.”
The call ends, and I stare through the window.
Protecting women ain’t new. I’ve done it in uniform. I’ve done it wearing this cut. I’ve done it with blood on my knuckles and no time to ask questions.
But this?
This ain’t the same.
The girl sleeping in the bedroom? She’s not a job. Not a mission. She’s in my head already, and I fucking hate how fast that happened.
She laughs at my tea routine like I ain’t dangerous. Stands her ground when she’s scared out of her mind. Bites her lip like she doesn’t know I’m watching. Like she doesn’t know that look makes me want things I’m not supposed to want.
I scrub a hand down my face.
I should keep it clean. Professional.
I drag a chair to face the front door. Plant my boots. Rest my hand near the pistol on the table.
If something comes through that door, I’m the first thing it sees.
She’s taking a nap. Tucked in. Safe.
And nothing touches what's mine.
The cabin’s quiet. Stove ticking. Wind in the trees. Her breathing soft behind the wall.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already mine.
Not in the way that makes a woman nervous.
In the way that makes a man dangerous.
I think about the rule I’ve always lived by. Love makes you weak. Love makes you hesitate. Love gets you killed.
I’m not in love. I can’t be. It’s too soon.
But I think about the way my mother used to whisper prayers over me after my father snapped his belt. I think about that woman and her kids crossing a line into safety. I think about Nadia’s quiet strength and how easily she took space without apology.
Maybe not love. But something.
And it makes me get up.
I check the lock on the front door, then walk to the bedroom and turn the knob gently. The door creaks open. Pale light filters through the trees, catching on the curve of her shoulder where it rises from the blanket.
She stirs. Blinks. Her voice is soft.
“Saint?”
“Just checking on you,” I murmur. “Go back to sleep.”
She pushes up on one elbow, eyes still heavy with sleep. Her voice is husky.
“Will you stay?”
My hand tightens on the doorknob.
“Nadia…”
She watches me, gaze steady.
“Please. I don’t want to be alone.”
That’s all it takes.
I step inside. Close the door behind me. Cross the room slower than I need to, like every step might be the one I regret.
She tracks me with her eyes, like she’s giving me every chance to walk away. Like she wouldn’t blame me if I did.
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful. Her hand finds mine before I can speak, small fingers curling around two of mine, tentative.
I stay.
“I’m not good at this,” I say quietly.
Her thumb brushes my knuckles.
“You don’t have to be good. Just here. Hold me.”
That does something to me I don’t have words for.
I shift back and lay down behind her, fully clothed. Boots left by the door. One arm above the blanket, between us. A line I draw and don’t cross.
But she edges back anyway, slow and uncertain, until her back meets my chest.
I don’t pull her closer. I just breathe her in.
Vanilla shampoo. Warm skin. That quiet note of trust she hasn’t spoken aloud.
She exhales, long and low. The kind of sigh people only make when something inside finally loosens.
She trusts me. Not just with her safety—
With her fear. With her space. With herself.
My hand hovers near her waist. Not touching. Just… there.
She shifts again, fitting closer.
“This okay?” she whispers.
I close my eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, low. “This is okay.”
And I stay like that, wide awake. Every muscle wired. Every nerve tuned to the girl pressed gently to my chest.
Testing every ounce of control I’ve got.