Chapter 4 Wolves at the Door
Lila
My body runs on fumes, but my mind refuses to shut down. Every muscle is locked tight, every nerve buzzes with the lingering dread that if I let my guard down, everything I’ve fought to escape will crash back down on me.
The scent of food drags me back to the present. My stomach clenches, but whether from hunger or unease, I’m not sure. Ryker drops a plate in front of me, the aroma hitting me first—something warm, rich, unmistakably homemade.
Scrambled eggs, toast, and crispy bacon; nothing fancy, but real food—solid, warm, unexpectedly settling. His green eyes flick over me in assessment before he flops onto the couch across from me.
"Eat," he grunts. "Before you pass out. That’d be a pain in the ass to deal with."
My stomach twists violently at the smell, a cruel mix of hunger and nausea battling for dominance. I hesitate, my fingers curling around the plate as if it might disappear. A single bite. That’s all. Just enough to take the edge off. But the second the food hits my tongue, my body betrays me—devouring it like a starving creature, despite every instinct screaming at me to stay guarded.
Ryker watches me, a strange expression on his face, not pity, not judgment, just… an observation. It’s unsettling, his quiet focus after the gentle care he just gave my feet. This house, him… none of it makes sense. The warmth, the food, the absence of immediate threat – it’s a disorientation I’m not equipped for. My mind struggles to categorize him, this place, failing to slot it into any familiar box of danger.
A man strides into the room, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp like he just got out of the shower. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans that look hastily pulled on. Droplets of water trail down his chest, disappearing into the defined ridges of his abs.
Without hesitation, he flops onto the couch beside me. The sudden movement makes me flinch, my body instinctively tensing. His gaze flickers to mine, his expression softening; he offers a kind, easy smile—maybe trying to soften the edges of my nerves. Then, as if diffusing the moment, he glances at the food, then at me. "You actually let Ryker cook? Damn, that’s bold. You sure it’s edible?"
Ryker’s lips twitch in his usual smirk, unfazed. “My cooking is an experience.”
From the bar, a third man lets out a low sigh, barely audible. "An experience in food poisoning, maybe," he murmurs, his voice quiet but carrying an edge of dry authority. He doesn't look away from me, but the subtle correction hangs in the air, a quiet assertion of order over Ryker's chaos.
He stands at the bar near the kitchen, arms crossed as he props himself against the edge, watching but saying nothing more. He must have been there for a while, unnoticed in my exhaustion. His sharp attention sweeps over me, calculating, gauging, a flicker of something unreadable in his hazel eyes before they settle into a cool, appraising stare. Not hostile, not yet, but weighted with a deliberate assessment that makes my skin prickle.
Ryker’s head turns toward my wary glance at the two men; he rolls his shoulders lazily. "Alright, Baby Girl, since you’re already looking at them like they’re gonna bite, let’s do this properly." He gestures between them. "These are my brothers—not by blood, but in every way that matters."
"We live together, work together here, and run Wicked Sanctuary together. It isn’t just a business; it’s the only family we’ve got. We handle the messy stuff for people who need things kept quiet." He gestures toward the damp-haired man. "That’s Ethan. He keeps us from getting our asses handed to us by the Feds."
Ethan grins, leaning forward slightly, his gaze flicking between me and Ryker with lazy curiosity. "Alright, so who’s our guest?" His tone is light, but an underlying sharpness suggests calculations already running in his head.
A grin touches Ryker’s lips. "Lila."
Ethan nods, then looks back at me. "Well, nice to meet you, Lila. And just for the record, I prefer ‘cyber-security specialist.’ Sounds fancier."
Ryker ignores him and nods toward the other man. "And that over there, standing stiffly, is Bastian. He’s the one who keeps us in line—logistics, strategy. He attempts to stop us blowing ourselves up or landing in prison."
Bastian doesn’t nod. He just stares. A slow, deliberate once-over, cataloging my weaknesses in real time. His eyes are cold, precise, weighing the liability I might be. The air thickens between us, a silent challenge I can’t afford to lose.
Controlled and rigid, his posture speaks of a lifetime burying emotion beneath the surface. It’s not hostility, exactly, but not friendly, either—something colder, that sets my nerves on edge .
"And what exactly is this whole operation?" I ask, my voice hoarse from disuse, cracking slightly as I push through the exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. My fingers tighten around the edge of the plate, anchoring myself to something solid.
Ryker leans back, propping his boots up on the coffee table like he owns the place, exuding a lazy confidence that screams danger, tightening the knot in my stomach. He stretches his arms behind his head, that mocking expression returning to his face as if he enjoys drawing this moment out. "Wicked Sanctuary," he says, the name rolling off his tongue with a predatory satisfaction.
“Think of us as… specialized problem solvers. When powerful people have messes too big, too dirty, or too dangerous for anyone else to touch, they call us. We retrieve things that aren’t supposed to be retrieved, protect people who aren’t supposed to be protected, and sometimes," he pauses, the grin widening, "we make sure inconvenient situations... simply cease to exist. We operate in the gray areas others are too scared—or too smart—to step into."
I stop chewing, the bite of eggs turning to lead in my mouth as I process that. My mind races through every possible meaning behind his words, each one worse than the last. "So, mercenaries."
Ethan huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he shifts forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "We prefer ‘private contractors,’ but sure. Call it whatever makes you feel better." Amusement colors his voice, but something sharper lingers underneath, something that implies he’s been called worse things before.
Ethan straightens, stretching his arms over the couch. "By the way, Gerry the night guard told me that Old Man Harris was sniffing around not too long ago. Nosy bastard has already asked if we had a new houseguest."
My stomach clenches mid-bite. Someone already knows I’m here? How? How could they possibly know?
Ryker nods, unfazed. "That man’s got nothing better to do than poke around in other people’s business. He’s been sniffing around for years."
Ethan shrugs. "Small town. People notice when things change."
I tighten my grip on the fork, my appetite vanishing. Small town. That means eyes. Whispers. I’m not invisible here.
"Great," I mutter, pushing the food around my plate, appetite dwindling under the weight of these revelations. "So, I’m surrounded by highly trained killers. That’s comforting." My voice is flat, but my pulse kicks up, a low hum of unease threading through me.
Ryker tilts his head, his expression unreadable for a moment before a slow, amused chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Killers? Nah, we don’t do assassinations." He taps a finger against the armrest, considering his words. "We’re just very good at making problems disappear."
His voice is casual, but the weight behind it is anything but. A reminder that, while they might not be murderers, they’re still dangerous men, navigating shadows, choosing who gets to walk away and who doesn’t.
I swallow hard, unsure if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
Bastian finally speaks, his voice low and deliberate. "The question isn't who she is. It's what she brings." Then he looks directly at me and says "Are you a problem?" The room tightens. My pulse stumbles, just for a second. I force my spine straight, refuse to look away, but the way he watches me—cold assessment turning me into a liability—it makes my throat close.
I don’t answer. I don’t even know what the right answer would be. My throat is dry, my body heavy with exhaustion, but the tension in the room is thick enough to keep me upright. I glance at Ryker, then Ethan, then back at Bastian, whose stare remains fixed.
Silence lingers, stretching long enough that my head starts to swim. I need sleep. My body demands it, but my mind refuses to let go. Eventually, Ryker shifts, breaking the stillness.
"She’s not a problem tonight," he mutters, pushing himself up from the couch. "She’s exhausted. Barely holding it together. Whatever interrogation you’re running in your head, Bastian, save it for later."
Bastian doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t argue.
I want to say something, to assert myself and push back, but my limbs are too heavy, my thoughts too sluggish. I barely register Ryker moving before the world tilts, strong arms sweeping me up effortlessly.
I wake, a strange lightness infusing my exhausted body, as if I’m floating between dreams and reality. For the first time in a long while, the weight feels less crushing. The warmth surrounding me is unfamiliar but not unpleasant, like being wrapped in something solid and safe.
It takes me a second to understand why I'm not on the couch anymore. Instead, I’m cradled against something unyielding, a solid presence beneath me. A heartbeat thuds steadily beneath my ear, rhythmic and grounding.
Haze dissolves into slow, creeping awareness. Someone is carrying me. Again. Twice in one night. Am I just destined to be carried around this place? The moment that realization fully clicks, my body tenses, a spike of adrenaline momentarily cutting through the exhaustion.
Then his voice rumbles low against my ear, steady and sure.
"Relax, Baby Girl."
My body doesn’t listen. Every muscle stays locked tight, the instinct to fight coiling deep in my gut. But his grip doesn’t tighten. He doesn’t force me to submit. Instead, he just… holds me. Solid. Steady. Unrelenting. The war in my chest rages on, but exhaustion is a cruel thing—it steals choice, strips down defenses.
Against every instinct, my body begins to give in. Just a little. Something relaxes instinctively, despite running on high alert, reassuring and unsettling me all at once. I barely know this man, yet some part of my brain registers him as safe… or at least, safer than most. Ridiculous. This man oozes danger, wrapped in muscle and mischief.
"Just moving you to a real bed. Unless you’d prefer to drool all over the couch?" A teasing lilt colors his words, but underlying concern surfaces beneath the bravado.
I huff, still groggy but aware enough to roll my eyes. "As long as you don’t drop me. Pretty sure last time you carried me, I ended up on the ground, half-conscious and worse for wear."
Ryker chuckles, the deep sound vibrating through his chest. "Yeah, Baby Girl, you came at me like a feral cat. Surprised you didn’t break my damn nose."
"Don't call me that," I mutter, the words sharp despite my exhaustion. "You don't even know me."
He just grins, seemingly unfazed by my correction. "Feisty. So, let’s try and keep the dramatics to a minimum this time, yeah? My skin’s not as tough as it looks."
I let out a breath somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, the absurdity of this moment settling in. I'm exhausted, bruised, carried like some damsel in distress by a man I should absolutely not trust. And yet, here I am, not fighting it. Not even really wanting to. Why isn't I fighting? The lack of resistance sends a cold dread through me. My instincts should be screaming—resist, fight, claw my way out of his arms like last time. But they’re silent.
Instead, something dangerously close to acceptance settles in, a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering that, for now, I am safe. It doesn’t make sense. I barely know him, yet my body registers his presence as something solid, steady.
His grip is steady, assured, firm without being forceful, holding me as if it's entirely natural for him, utterly effortless. He isn’t coddling me, isn’t treating me like something fragile. His movements are smooth, practiced.
Maybe he has carried people before, perhaps some who never had a choice. The thought creeps in unbidden, but I push it away. I can't think about what these men have done, what they’re capable of; it won’t help me right now.
The room he brings me to is dimly lit, the soft glow of a lamp casting shadows along the walls. A large bed dominates the space, impossibly soft, too inviting for someone who’s spent years on edge. The air carries the scent of clean linen and something undeniably masculine—cedarwood, or leather. Strangely comforting, though I won’t admit that out loud. Ryker sets me down, stepping back immediately like he knows I might bolt if he lingers. Smart man.
I pull the covers over me instinctively, more for the illusion of security than actual warmth. My gaze fixes on Ryker as he props himself in the doorway, broad chest blocking much of the opening, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask if I’m okay—just watches, gauging whether I’ll actually let myself rest. “Get some sleep, Lila.”
Then he’s gone, and for the first time in years, I don’t fall asleep terrified of what will happen when I wake up.
Voices wake me before the sun does. Low but distinct, carrying through the walls like the rumble of a distant storm. My room is tucked down a short hallway, the door slightly ajar; from my angle, I can see into the open-concept living space where the men talk.
The kitchen light spills into the open space, casting long shadows across the floor. Tension thickens the air between them, their postures rigid despite the casual setting.
Ryker sprawls lazily across the couch, but even in his relaxed position, alertness radiates from him. Ethan perches on the armrest, his head tilted, expression thoughtful. Bastian stands near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his jaw tight, his presence as immovable as a damn mountain.
I keep my breathing slow, steady, straining to catch every word. My body is still sore, my feet a constant dull throb, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the tension curling in my stomach.
“She’s skittish,” Ethan says, his voice the closest thing to soft in this house. "Not a threat. Just someone who needs a break."
"Yet," Bastian counters, his tone edged with skepticism. "We don’t know what she’s running from. Could be a setup."
Ryker scoffs. "If it was, she’s doing a shit job at it. She’s not exactly playing the femme fatale role, Bas."
I weigh my options. Stay curled in this bed, hidden? That won't get me anywhere. They’re talking about me like some stray they picked up, an unknown variable to assess. Maybe they’re right. But I can’t afford to let them decide my fate.
A pause. Then Bastian sighs. “I don’t like unknowns.”
“She’s not an unknown,” Ethan argues. “She’s a woman who’s clearly been through hell.”
“She’s a liability,” Bastian corrects, voice clipped. “We don’t know who’s looking for her. We don’t know if keeping her here puts us in someone’s crosshairs.”
Ryker lets out a low chuckle. “We’re always in someone’s crosshairs.”
Ethan doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, his voice is steady. "She’s scared of men." His tone carries a certainty that stills the room for a beat.
He exhales, rubbing a hand along his jaw. "Look, I don’t know anything about her, but I know what fear looks like. The way she flinched when I sat next to her. The way she tracks every one of us like she’s waiting for something bad to happen. That kind of fear... that's survival, not deception."
Ryker lets out a low whistle, stretching an arm over the back of the couch. "Damn, Mercer. You got all that from, what? One meal and a few words?"
Ethan doesn’t waver. "Yeah. And you saw it too, even if you won’t admit it. The second I walked in, she tensed up. But you? You grabbed her, carried her, and she barely fought you. That means something. Whether she knows it or not, she trusts you, even if it’s a little bit."
Ryker's expression falters just slightly before he covers it with a shrug. "Maybe she was too exhausted to claw my eyes out this time."
Bastian watches Ethan closely, his expression unreadable. "You trust her?"
Ethan nods without hesitation. "Yeah. My gut says she’s not our problem. She’s running from something—or someone—bigger than us. And I’ve learned to trust my gut."
Another pause. Then, begrudgingly, Bastian sighs. "I’ll give her a week."
That’s my cue.
I push back the blankets, ignoring the sting in my feet as they hit the cool floor. Inhale deeply, steadying myself. I hate this vulnerability. But if they’re going to talk about me, I’d rather be part of the conversation. Their voices dip for a second—did they hear the shift?—but they keep talking. I straighten my spine, roll my shoulders, then walk down the hallway, stepping into the doorway of the lounge room.
Three sets of eyes snap toward me the moment I appear. Ryker, draped lazily over the couch, grins as if he expected me, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes—like I’m an interesting puzzle. Ethan leans forward slightly from the armrest, his expression open, laced with curiosity and perhaps concern. Bastian remains rigidly still near the kitchen, arms crossed, his sharp hazel gaze sweeping over me with cold calculation, assessing me like a ticking bomb.
"You’ve got opinions about me," I say, stepping fully into the doorway. Their gazes sharpen, locking onto me as I speak. "So, let’s get one thing straight—I’m not your problem. And I sure as hell don’t need you deciding my future for me."
Ryker lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. "You sure do have a way of walking into a room and setting the rules, Baby Girl."
My head snaps toward him, a glare hardening my expression. "And I told you not to call me that."
He just throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the tense room. "Like I said," he grins, completely ignoring my protest, "setting the rules."
I clamp my jaw shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait again, turning my attention back to the other two. "Not rules," I repeat, voice tight. "Just facts."
Ethan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, no one’s saying we’re kicking you out in the middle of the night. But you don’t get to make demands, either. You landed here, whether you meant to or not. That means we decide what happens next."
"And what?" I snap. "You’re keeping me hostage now?"
Bastian, silent until now, finally speaks, his voice clipped. "Hostage? No. But we don’t let strays walk in and out of here without knowing exactly who they are and what danger they bring with them. Make no mistake," his gaze hardens, "if whoever you're running from finds you here, you put a target on all of us."
"I don’t bring danger," my voice is tight, lower now. "I left it behind. He won't find me."
Ryker tilts his head, a flicker of dangerous curiosity in his eyes. "He?" he drawls, like he’s just picked up a crucial thread. "Ah, now we’re getting somewhere."
I grit my teeth, immediately regretting the slip. "It’s none of your business."
"Wrong," Bastian cuts in, stepping forward slightly, his presence commanding, immovable. "Everything that happens under this roof is my business. Especially when it involves a potential threat." His stare pins me. "And right now, whether you admit it or not, you are a potential threat."
The weight of their scrutiny is suffocating. For a second, I consider turning and locking myself back in the room, but I stand my ground.
"Who are you running from, Lila?" Ethan asks again, his voice softer, coaxing.
My chest tightens. I shake my head. "It doesn’t matter."
"It matters to us ," Bastian says flatly. He studies me for a long moment, then lets out a slow, deliberate exhale. "Fine. You want time? You get one week."
My head snaps up. One week. The words hang there.
"One week," I echo, defiance tasting bitter on my tongue. "That’s all. And then I’m gone."
Panic, cold and sharp, claws its way up my throat. One week. Seven days. An eternity and no time at all. A countdown timer strapped to my chest, ticking down until… what? Until they toss me out? Kolya finds me? I have to run again, with nowhere to go? My hands clench into fists at my sides, knuckles white, nails biting into my palms. I force the fear down, shoving it deep alongside the exhaustion, the aches.
Ryker watches my reaction, a small chuckle rumbling in his chest. "We’ll see about that, Baby Girl."
But Ethan frowns, glancing sharply at Bastian. "A week? That’s it?" His voice is tight with frustration. "She can barely walk, Bastian. Expecting her to be ready to leave in seven days is bullshit."
Bastian’s gaze flicks to Ethan, then back to me, cold and assessing. "She thinks she can dictate terms. She thinks she can just walk out of here when she decides." His eyes lock onto mine, hard and unyielding. "Let's be clear, Lila. That 'one week' isn't your deadline to leave. It's your deadline to cooperate. It means you stay put, right here, under our rules, until we say otherwise. You prove you're not going to bring hell down on our heads. Get it?"
The correction slams into me. Not an eviction notice, but a leash. A different kind of cage. The panic shifts, souring into resentment. Trapped. Controlled again.
Ethan’s lips press into a thin line, but he doesn't argue further with Bastian's decree. He just looks at me with something like frustration, maybe pity.
Ryker just snorts, tilting his head back against the couch, watching the show. "This should be interesting."
I glare at Bastian, the words "under our rules" echoing in my head. I should be grateful for the roof, for the time. But the sensation of being controlled, of someone else setting the boundaries of my life again ... makes my blood run cold.
But for now? I have no leverage. I swallow the anger, forcing a tight nod I don't feel.
I’ll play along.
One week. Seven days. Not freedom. A countdown to prove myself, apparently. Or maybe just a countdown until I find a way out on my own terms.
This isn’t a safe haven. It’s a waiting room, and they're the gatekeepers. The second I can stand on my own, rules or no rules, I’m walking out that door.