Chapter 4 - Wraith
I make it approximately four steps down the hallway before I have to stop and lean against the wall for a second, hand pressed flat against the paint, breathing through something I don't have a name for.
This is fine. This is good, actually. This is exactly what I needed.
Someone competent, someone Ranger trusts with his life, someone who can keep Mariah safe while I handle the war that's currently trying to burn down everything I've built.
Quinn Nash is clearly qualified, clearly capable, clearly good with my daughter, and I should be relieved.
I am relieved.
I'm also completely fucked, and it took me less than an hour to figure that out.
I push off the wall and head downstairs because standing in my hallway having feelings about my daughter's new babysitter is not on today's agenda, or any day's agenda, and I've gotten very good at ignoring things that don't serve a practical purpose.
Feelings about women fall firmly into that category. Have for four years now. Will continue to indefinitely because that's the deal I made with myself when Kate walked out—everything for Mariah, nothing for me that doesn't directly benefit her.
Quinn staying here benefits her. Quinn being good at her job benefits her. Quinn reading to her in that soft voice doing all the character parts benefits her.
Quinn looking at my daughter like she's something precious while simultaneously looking like she could put a bullet through the skull of anyone who tried to hurt her, that benefits her too, and that's the only reason I'm allowing myself to notice it.
The kitchen is exactly how I left it ten minutes ago.
Clean counters, dishes done, fridge stocked with food that'll hopefully turn into something edible if I try hard enough.
I'm not a great cook. I'm a functional cook.
Mariah hasn't starved yet, so I'm calling that a win.
I pull open the fridge and stare at its contents, trying to remember what I planned for dinner before Quinn Nash showed up on my porch in pigtails and rearranged my entire equilibrium.
Chicken. I bought chicken. And vegetables that looked good at the store but that I now have no idea what to do with. There's pasta in the cupboard. I can do pasta. Everyone can do pasta. It's basically impossible to fuck up pasta unless you're actively trying.
I'm pulling out ingredients when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out one-handed and glance at the screen.
Phoenix: Church tonight. 8 PM. Mandatory.
I close my eyes briefly. Of course. We're three days past the warehouse raid and still no retaliation from the Vipers, which means everyone's strung tight waiting for the other shoe to drop. Phoenix is probably calling church to go over defensive positions, threat assessments, contingency plans.
All things I should be there for because that's my job. I'm the planner, the one who sees three moves ahead, the one who makes sure we don't walk into traps we should've seen coming.
All things that require me to leave my house at night while my daughter sleeps, which is exactly what I hired Quinn for, and which should feel fine but instead feels like I'm testing something too soon, like I'm pushing weight onto a structure before the concrete's fully set.
I text back: I'll be there.
Then I add: New babysitter started today. Need to brief her before I leave.
Phoenix responds immediately: Ranger's sister?
I reply: Yeah.
He texts back: Good. He trusts her. That's enough for me.
I pocket the phone and go back to staring at the chicken, except now I'm also calculating timing: if church is at eight, I should leave by seven-thirty to make it to the clubhouse with a few minutes to spare, which means dinner needs to be done by six-thirty at the latest, which means I need to start cooking in the next hour, which means I should probably go brief Quinn now so she knows what to expect tonight.
This is what my brain does. Constantly. Every decision branches into twelve other decisions, every timeline splits into contingencies and backup plans and what-ifs.
Judge jokes that I think in flowcharts. He's not wrong.
It's exhausting and it's also the only thing that's kept me and Mariah alive this long, so I'm not about to apologize for it.
I head back upstairs, knock quietly on Quinn's door.
"Come in," she calls.
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.
Mariah eats most of her vegetables without complaint, probably showing off for Quinn, and Quinn navigates the meal like she's been eating at our table for months instead of hours.
She asks Mariah about her favorite things—books, games, what she wants to be when she grows up (a dragon rider, apparently, which tracks), and listens to the answers with genuine interest.
I watch them interact while pushing pasta around my plate, mentally noting the easy rapport they've already built, the way Mariah keeps looking at Quinn like she's checking to make sure she's still there, still real, still staying.
By seven-fifteen, I'm pulling on my cut in the hallway, checking my pockets for phone and keys and wallet, running through a mental list of what Phoenix might want to discuss and what information I'll need to provide.
Quinn comes down the stairs as I'm zipping up my boots, Mariah trailing behind her in pajamas already even though bedtime's still forty-five minutes away.
"Early pajamas?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at my daughter.
"Quinn said if I got ready early, we'd have extra time for stories." Mariah grins, triumphant, and I glance at Quinn, who shrugs with a small smile.
"Seemed like a fair trade."
"Smart," I admit. "I never thought of that angle."
"I have many strategies." She says it lightly, but I catch the truth underneath: she does have strategies, probably a dozen of them for every situation, the same way I do. We're alike in that way. Planners. Thinkers. People who need to see the whole board before making a move.
It should be comforting, having someone in the house who thinks like I do.