Chapter 12
GEMMA
He's coming. Two words, and all the progress I've made turns to glass.
My hands want to shake. My lungs want to close. Every instinct I spent four years developing screams at me to run, to hide, to make myself small and invisible and hope he passes by without noticing.
I don't do any of those things.
I sit at the booth in Ironside, surrounded by men who would die before letting Craig touch me, and I breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way the therapist taught me years ago, before Craig convinced me I didn't need therapy anymore.
Will's hand finds mine under the table. Warm. Steady. An anchor.
"Shaw's on his way," Cole says, ending another call. "Tate's got the traffic cam footage and is running the rental plates. We'll know where he is within the hour."
"And then what?" My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "We just wait for him to make a move?"
Cole and Will exchange a look. The kind of look men give each other when they're deciding how much to tell the woman in the room.
"Don't do that," I say sharply. "Don't protect me from information. I'm not fragile."
Will squeezes my hand. "We know you're not. We're just trying to figure out the play."
"Then include me. I'm not a piece of furniture."
Another look between them. Then Cole nods, a grudging respect in his eyes. "Fair enough."
Shaw arrives twenty minutes later, still in civilian clothes but with the focused energy of someone who's switched into operational mode. Tate calls a few minutes after that, and Will puts him on speaker.
"Craig's rental was spotted at a gas station in Coos Bay," Tate says. "Forty miles north. He filled up, bought coffee, sat in the parking lot for an hour before heading south again. He's taking his time. Probably trying to figure out what he's walking into."
"Good," Will says. "Let's keep it that way."
The next few hours are a blur of planning and logistics.
The brothers move around me with practiced efficiency, each one slotting into their role without being asked.
Shaw coordinates with local law enforcement, calling in favors, making sure the restraining order petition gets flagged as urgent.
Tate monitors Craig's movements through traffic cameras and a network of contacts I don't ask about.
Cole stays close to me, a silent wall of protective anger.
And Will. Will watches everything, directs everyone, and never lets go of my hand.
I'm grateful—I am—but I also feel useless. The object of their protection rather than a person with agency. And that feeling is too close to how Craig made me feel for four years.
"I want to help," I say during a lull in the planning. "Tell me what I can do."
"You're already helping," Will says. "You're staying safe."
"Staying safe isn't helping. It's hiding."
He studies my face for several seconds. "What did you have in mind?"
I've been thinking about it since the moment Will told us Craig was coming. Turning the scenario over in my head, looking for angles, looking for a way to take back some control.
"He's taking his time because he doesn't know what he's walking into," I say. "He thinks I'm alone. Vulnerable. That's his playbook—he waits until he has the advantage, then he strikes."
Cole's jaw tightens. Will nods slowly, listening.
"So we use that. Let him think he has the advantage." I take a breath. "I'll be the bait."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"Absolutely not," Cole says flatly.
"Hear me out. He's never going to approach if he thinks I'm protected. He'll start circling, watching, waiting for an opening. We could be doing this for weeks. Months." I shake my head. "I can't live like that. And neither can any of you."
"She's right," Shaw says. Everyone turns to look at him. "About the waiting, at least. Stalkers escalate when they feel like they're losing control. If he thinks she's untouchable, he might do something desperate. Something we can't predict... something we might not be able to stop in time."
"So your solution is to dangle her in front of him?" Cole's voice rises. "That's insane."
"My solution," I cut in, "is to control the situation instead of letting him control it. Pick the time, pick the place, have you all positioned around the perimeter. He shows up, he approaches me, you step in before he can do anything. And then we have him on violation of the restraining order."
"The restraining order isn't finalized yet," Will points out.
"Shaw said it should be processed by tomorrow afternoon. We wait until it's in place, then we move."
More silence. But this time it feels different. Less dismissive, more considering.
Will is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Pride, maybe. And something else. Fear, carefully controlled.
"It's risky," he says.
"Everything is risky. This way, I'm the one taking the risk instead of just waiting for him to choose when and where."
"You've thought about this."
"I've had four years to think about what I'd do if I ever got the chance to face him on my terms." I meet his eyes. "I'm tired of being afraid, Will. I'm tired of letting him have that power over me. This is how I take it back."
He holds my gaze, and I can see the war behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to lock me in a safe room and stand guard outside fighting against the part that respects my right to make my own choices.
The second part wins.
"Okay," he says. "We do it your way. But we do it smart. Multiple sight lines, multiple exit strategies. And the moment anything feels wrong, we pull you out. No arguments."
"No arguments," I agree.
Cole looks like he wants to object, but Shaw puts a hand on his shoulder. "She's not the same person who walked through that door," Shaw says. "Let her do this."
Cole exhales through his nose. "Fine. But I'm going to be the closest one to her. And if that asshole so much as breathes in her direction—"
"You'll have to beat me to him," Will says.
The planning continues, but the energy in the room has shifted. I'm not the object of their protection anymore. I'm part of the team.
It feels like taking something back. Something that was always mine.
By midnight, we have a plan. The day after tomorrow, I'll be at a coffee shop in the center of town, visible through the windows, apparently alone.
The brothers will be positioned at various points around the square—close enough to intervene in seconds, far enough to not spook Craig into backing off.
Shaw confirms that the restraining order should be finalized by then. Tate will be monitoring traffic cameras to track Craig's approach. Cole will be in a car across the street. And Will...
"I'll be inside," he says. "Different table, eyes on the door. Close enough to get to you in three seconds."
"And if he doesn't show?"
"Then we try again. As many times as it takes."
I nod. It's not a perfect plan. No plan is. But it's mine, and that matters more than I can explain.
The brothers filter out one by one, heading home to grab a few hours of sleep before tomorrow's surveillance shifts. Cole is the last to leave, pausing at the door to look back at me.
"I'm proud of you," he says. "For what it's worth."
"It's worth a lot."
He nods and disappears into the night.
Then it's just me and Will, alone in the empty bar, the silence settling around us like a blanket.
"You should get some sleep," he says. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
"I know." But I don't move. There's something I need, something I've been thinking about since we started planning. "Before all of this happens, I want one night without him. Without his shadow hanging over everything."
Will tilts his head. "What do you mean?"
"Take me to The Forge." The words come out clear and certain. "Not for a tour. For real."
He goes very still. "Gemma."
"I know what I'm asking. I know you think I should wait, that I'm not ready, that the timing isn't right." I step closer to him, close enough to feel his warmth. "But I've been waiting my whole life for the timing to be right. And I'm done waiting."
"This isn't something you do because you're scared and looking for a distraction."
"That's not what this is." I reach up and touch his face, my palm against his jaw. "This is me choosing. Clearly, deliberately, without fear. I want to know what it feels like to surrender to someone I trust. I want to know what I'm capable of. And I want to know it with you."
His eyes search mine. Looking for doubt, for desperation, for any sign that I'm not as sure as I sound.
He doesn't find any.
"If we do this," he says slowly, "there are rules. We negotiate everything first. You have a safeword that stops all action, no questions asked. And afterward, I take care of you. That's non-negotiable."
"I know. You explained it before."
"Explaining it and living it are different things."
"Then show me."
He holds my gaze a beat longer. Then his hand comes up to cover mine where it rests against his face.
"Come with me."
The Forge is different this time. The hallway feels charged with anticipation. Will keys in a code at one of the private room doors, and we step into a space that's smaller than I expected but somehow exactly right.
Warm lighting. A large bed with dark sheets. A wall with equipment I recognize from my research—cuffs, restraints, implements whose purposes I can guess at. Everything clean, everything intentional.
"Sit," Will says, gesturing to the bed. "We need to talk first."
I sit. He pulls a chair close and faces me, his knees almost touching mine.
"Tell me your limits. Things you absolutely don't want."
"No pain that leaves marks. No... nothing that restricts my breathing." The memories of Craig surface briefly, and I push them down. "Nothing degrading. I need to feel respected, even when I'm being controlled."
Will nods. "What do you want to try?"
"Restraints. Being told what to do." I swallow. "Being praised when I do it right."
"Safeword?"
"Red."