Chapter 11
SHAW
The hotel room yields exactly what I expected—signs of a thorough search, Mira's belongings rifled through, and no useful evidence the intruder left behind.
It's nearly three AM when I pull back into my driveway. The house is dark and quiet, exactly as I left it. Brotherhood security is still posted—I can see the glow of a cigarette from where one of the brothers stands watch near the street.
Inside, I move silently down the hallway and ease open my bedroom door. Mira's still asleep, curled on her side exactly where she was hours ago. Her breathing is deep and even. Safe.
I close the door quietly and head back to the kitchen, pulling out my phone. Sleep can wait. First, I need to handle the people who gave a stalker access to her location.
Cole answers on the second ring.
"She safe?"
"Yeah. At my place." I keep my voice low even though Mira can't hear me from the bedroom. "Got her settled. But I need you to handle something."
"Name it."
"I found out a hotel clerk gave Mira's room number to somebody." Rage simmers just beneath my surface, controlled but present. "And a member of the housekeeping staff confirmed Mira was staying there when someone called asking about her."
Silence stretches for three seconds. Then Cole's voice comes through, flat and knowing. "Where are they?"
"Anchor Bay Inn, downtown location. Night shift." I check my watch. "Should still be on for another few hours."
"You going to have a conversation?"
"Yeah. But I need someone watching my six in case this gets messy." My jaw tightens. "They gave a stalker access to a woman's location. Someone who's already proven he's willing to burn down buildings. That kind of negligence doesn't get a pass."
"I'll meet you there in twenty." Cole pauses. "Will's at the bar if we need backup."
"Won't need it. Just a conversation." My knuckles ache from how tightly I'm gripping the phone. "Educational one."
I end the call and move silently through my house, grabbing my kutte from where it hangs by the front door.
The leather settles across my shoulders with familiar weight.
Brotherhood colors displayed openly because tonight, whoever I'm dealing with needs to understand exactly who's delivering this message.
I grab the keys to my truck instead of the bike. Quieter. Less distinctive.
Twenty minutes later, I'm pulling into the Anchor Bay Inn parking lot. Cole's already there, leaning against his Harley near the back entrance where staff comes and goes. He straightens when my truck approaches.
"Night manager and one housekeeper on duty," he reports, voice low. "Manager's name is Stan Kemp. Housekeeper is Linda Morrison. Both confirmed they gave information about Mira to someone calling himself 'her colleague from the insurance company.'"
"They verify credentials?"
"Nope." Cole's expression goes hard. "Just took his word for it over the phone and told him everything he wanted to know. Room number, how long she was staying, what time she usually came and went."
The fury burns hotter in my chest. "Let's go inside."
We move through the staff entrance, walking with the kind of purposeful stride that makes people get out of the way instinctively. Confidence and presence, backed by Brotherhood colors and the understanding that we're here for a specific reason.
The night manager sits behind the front desk, mid-twenties with soft hands and nervous energy. Stan Kemp, according to his name tag. He looks up when we approach, and whatever he sees in my expression makes him go pale.
"Can I help you?"
"Mira Vaughn, the insurance investigator. She was staying here." I plant both palms on the desk and lean forward, watching him shrink back. "You gave her room number to someone over the phone."
"I—I don't—"
"Don't lie to me." Command snaps through my voice, sharp enough to make him flinch. "Someone called asking about her. You confirmed her room number, her schedule, everything he wanted to know. That person used your information to stalk her. To threaten her. To make her feel unsafe."
"I thought he was her colleague!" Words tumble out fast, panicked. "He knew her name, knew she worked for an insurance company, sounded professional—"
"Did you verify his credentials?" Cole asks from behind me, voice carrying that VP authority that makes people tell the truth.
"No, but—"
"Did you ask Mira if she wanted her information shared?"
"We don't usually—"
"Did you follow any protocol designed to protect guest privacy?" I keep my voice level through sheer force of will. "Or did you just hand over everything to a stranger because he sounded convincing?"
Stan swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I made a mistake."
I push off the desk but don't back away, maintaining the pressure. "That woman is under Brotherhood protection. That means when someone targets her, when someone makes her unsafe because of information you provided, it becomes my problem."
"I'm sorry—"
"Sorry doesn't cut it." My hands curl into fists at my sides.
"You're going to remember this conversation every time someone calls asking about a guest. You're going to remember that your negligence could have gotten someone hurt.
And you're going to follow actual verification protocols before you ever give out guest information again. "
"Yes, sir." Barely a whisper.
"Where's the housekeeper?"
"Linda's on break. Staff room in back." He points with a shaking hand.
I find Linda Morrison sitting in a cramped room with a coffee maker and a couch that's seen better days. Fifties, tired eyes, worn hands from years of manual labor. She looks up when I fill the doorway.
"You Linda Morrison?"
"Yes?" She’s wary now, sensing trouble.
"You worked during the time Mira Vaughn stayed here. Someone called asking about her schedule. You gave out information about her." I cross my arms, letting my kutte and the Iron Brotherhood colors speak for themselves. "That information put her in danger."
Linda's face goes white. "I thought he was her partner from work. He said they were investigating fires together and he needed to coordinate schedules—"
"Did you ask her if she wanted that information shared?"
"No, but—"
"Did you verify he worked with her?"
"He knew details about the investigation—"
I step fully into the room, and Linda presses back against the couch. "Your information helped a stalker track her movements. Helped him know when she was vulnerable. Helped him threaten her."
"Oh my God." Genuine horror now. "I didn't know—"
"You didn't bother to find out." Keep my voice cold, controlled. "You assumed. You took a stranger's word. You violated guest privacy because it was easier than doing your job correctly."
"I'm so sorry—"
I lean down, making sure she hears every word clearly. "You're going to follow verification procedures. Every time someone calls asking about a guest, you confirm with that guest before sharing anything. Every single time. No exceptions."
"Yes, sir."
"And you're going to remember that your negligence could have gotten someone killed. That weight? That's on you. Live with it."
I turn and walk out before the rage simmering under my surface boils over into something uglier. Cole follows silently, both of us moving back through the staff entrance and into the parking lot.
"Feel better?" Cole asks when we're outside.
I flex my hands, knuckles aching from how tightly they've been clenched. "Not really. But they'll think twice before pulling that shit again."
"They probably pissed themselves."
"Good." I head toward my truck. "Mira's under my roof. That's what matters. But anyone who helped the arsonist get to her needs to understand there are consequences."
"Brotherhood takes care of its own." Cole moves toward his bike. "She's one of ours now, whether it's official or not."
"Yeah." Under my protection. In my house. In my life.
I head back home, adrenaline still simmering but banked lower. When I get inside, the house is exactly as I left it—dark and quiet, Brotherhood security still posted outside. I strip off my kutte and hang it by the door, then move silently down the hallway to my bedroom.
The door is still closed. I ease it open and listen—breathing audible in the darkness. Steady. Deep. Peaceful. Mira's still asleep, curled on her side exactly where I left her hours ago.
Tomorrow morning she'll wake up here, make coffee in my kitchen, and we'll keep working the case.
But tonight, she's in my house, under my roof, protected by every resource the Brotherhood has.
Anyone who threatens that just learned what happens when you cross the Iron Brotherhood's Sergeant-at-Arms.
I strip down to boxers and slide into bed beside her, careful not to disturb her sleep. Her warmth radiates across the small space between us. Within minutes, tension drains from my shoulders, replaced by something I haven't felt in years. Peace. Sleep comes easier with Mira in my bed.
Morning light filters through the blinds when I wake, pulling me from the first full night's rest I've had in weeks. The house is quiet except for the sound of the shower running. Mira is making herself at home.
I head to the kitchen and start coffee, falling into a routine that feels both new and inevitable.
Morning light catches copper in Mira's hair when she appears minutes later, reaching for coffee mugs in my cabinet without asking where anything is. She’s wearing jeans and yesterday's sweater, one shoulder sliding down when she stretches. Her feet bare on my tile floor.
"Black?" She glances back, pours both cups and hands me mine, fingers brushing my knuckles lingering there just long enough to remind us both of what changed between us.