Chapter Four
Wilder
Noah sits in the chair on the other side of my desk, the lease agreement spread neatly between us.
His eyes are slightly squinted, his brows furrowed in a serious frown as he carefully goes over each line.
Most people don’t do that. Most people skim through the words, eager to get keys in their hands and move on with their lives. But Noah takes his time.
That alone tells me enough.
I lean back in my chair and watch him without looking like I’m watching. Old habits. Prison carved that into me. I learned early that the quiet ones are the ones you pay attention to. The ones who measure before they act. The ones who don’t need noise to prove anything.
Noah signs his name with a steady hand and slides the paper toward me. “I appreciate this.”
His voice is calm. Composed. A man who’s seen things and learned how to live with them.
I nod once. “Rules are simple. No drugs. No violence. No bringing trouble to the building.”
His mouth tightens slightly. He doesn’t look offended. And that makes me respect him even more. “Understood.”
He stands, and I pass him the keys. The metal glints briefly in the late afternoon light coming through the office window. He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t ask questions. Just another nod before he leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him. The silence that follows should feel familiar. This office has always been my sanctuary. The space where I can stay fully in control. But tonight, I can’t seem to rein in the direction of my thoughts. They keep drifting to her.
Millie has been living with me for a couple of weeks, and I still haven’t adjusted to the way she fits perfectly into my life. I didn’t think something like that was possible. Not for me. Not after everything I’ve dealt with in my life.
Since I was released from prison, I haven’t tolerated people in my space. At least not beyond a night or two. Even then, only when it was necessary. I like quiet. Predictability. I like knowing every sound, every movement. People disrupt that.
Millie doesn’t.
She softens it.
Her things are scattered throughout my apartment now. Shoes by the door. Her brush beside mine in the bathroom. That little jewelry kit of hers always on the dining table. The scent of her shampoo mixed with mine in the shower. None of it irritates me. None of it makes me restless.
If anything, the thought of it disappearing makes something tight and ugly rise in my chest.
We’ve been intimate more times than I planned. More times than I should have allowed. I keep telling myself I’ll slow down, that she needs time, but every night she ends up in my bed again. Curled against me. Trusting. Open. Learning.
She hasn’t said it outright, but I know she’s nervous about going all the way.
I can see it in the way her body tenses sometimes.
I’m not pushing her. I won’t. She deserves all the patience and care I can afford—although that’s running thin— because every time she calls me Daddy, something inside me nearly turns feral.
Every time I call her baby girl, it feels less like a nickname and more like a claim.
The realization worries me.
But not enough to stop.
I put the paper Noah signed away, making a mental note to give Zane a call later since he referred Noah to Wilder House.
It’s just formalities, though. I know Zane well enough to know he would never vouch for a dishonorable man.
He stayed here nearly a year while he got back on his feet from an accident as a Navy pilot, and we formed something of a camaraderie.
I didn’t ask questions when he called a few days ago to inform me a friend from his support group needed a place, but I can’t completely throw caution to the wind.
My mind strays back to Millie. Again.
I wonder what she would think of me when she finds out someone new is moving into Wilder House when I initially told her we had no empty units.
Even though I didn’t fully have an explanation for my actions, I told myself it was for her safety.
That she needed stability and protection.
Thinking about it now though, the truth is simpler.
I wanted her close. One day she’ll put it together—the empty unit that suddenly isn’t—and I’ll have to tell her why. I’m not ready for that conversation. Not yet.
I glance at my watch, absentmindedly wondering why she isn’t back yet. I reach for my phone before I even realize what I’m doing.
When I gave her the phone, I asked her to share her location with me. She hesitated—I saw the old wariness flicker—until I told her it was only so I’d know she was safe out there. Nothing more. She’d agreed.
Her location comes up immediately. The little dot is moving slowly across the map. Too slowly.
My jaw tightens.
Of course, she chose to walk.
I gave her money for a ride. Told her not to walk.
Told her the neighborhood wasn’t safe after dark—but not the real reason.
The route between the diner and Wilder House cuts through territory that used to belong to the Serpents.
Men I used to call brothers. Men who would stop at nothing to destroy me. Again.
A low, dangerous heat spreads through my chest.
I’m on my feet before the thought fully forms. I grab my keys, lock the office, and leave the building. The air outside is cooler than I expected, but I barely feel it. My focus narrows to a spot in the distance, and the worst possibilities my mind insists on offering.
The closer I get, the worse the feeling becomes.
Then I see her. She’s about two blocks away, stopped at a street corner. Two men are standing in front of her, blocking the sidewalk. Their posture alone tells me everything. One leans too close. The other laughs, eyes dragging over her in a way that makes my hands curl into fists.
Millie looks small. Tense. Her backpack clutched to her chest like a shield.
Then she sees me and relief washes across her face so quickly it hits me like a physical blow.
Something inside me snaps. I close the distance fast, the men noticing me too late.
I shove between them and step in front of her, forcing them back without a word. My body shields hers automatically, communicating my ownership. She’s mine.
“Problem?” I ask quietly.
One of them smirks. “Well, look who crawled back out of his hole.”
The other chuckles. “Didn’t know you liked them young now, Tate.”
Their words barely register. All I hear is the blood rushing in my ears. I lunge forward, ready to throw fists, but Millie’s hands wrap around my arm, the contact cutting through the rage. Suddenly, the stakes shift. I can’t afford to lose control.
Just when I’m about to talk myself out of my rage, one of the men reaches toward her.
I move before he touches her, slamming the bastard into the wall with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.
He pulls a knife, but he’s sloppy. I disarm him in seconds, pressing the blade against his throat before he can blink.
The second man freezes.
“Back up,” I say.
He does, arms raised above his head in a sign of surrender. The man in front of me trembles. I press the knife harder, just enough to nick his skin.
“You’re going to give Cruz a message,” I tell him, my voice low and steady.
Fear floods his eyes. I keep going.
“If anyone from your crew comes near me, her, or Wilder House again, I will give the FBI everything I have.” I lean closer.
“And after that, I’ll make sure Cruz doesn’t live long enough to see a jail cell.”
Silence stretches, strengthening the impact of the threat. I let him go and watch the two of them scramble into the darkness.
For a moment, I just stand there, breathing hard, the last of the adrenaline burning through my veins. Behind me, Millie’s fingers tighten on my arm, reminding me of the need to breathe.
“Let’s go home,” I rasp, my tone clipped.
I keep my hand wrapped around hers the entire walk home.
The night air is cool, but I’m burning from the inside out.
Every muscle in my body feels tight, my jaw aching from how hard I’m clenching it.
I force myself to breathe slowly, evenly.
I won’t let her see how close I still am to losing control. She doesn’t deserve that kind of fear.
She walks quietly beside me. No questions. No nervous chatter. Just trust. Every so often her fingers tighten around mine, like she needs to feel that I’m still here.
That quiet dependence soothes the violence simmering in me.
When we reach the apartment, I unlock the door and guide her inside with a hand at her back. The moment the door closes, the tension shifts. The world outside disappears and it’s just us.
She moves automatically, slipping off her shoes, setting her bag down. “I’ll make tea,” she says softly.
“No, baby.”
She pauses and turns to me. The way she looks at me—hesitantly—almost breaks me.
I take a breath and hold out my hand. “Come here.”
She comes without hesitation. Always. That trust is a weight I carry in my chest. When she’s close, I cup her face, my thumbs brushing the faint tear tracks on her cheeks. “You scared me tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers immediately. “I didn’t think—”
“That’s the problem.” I keep my voice low but steady. “You didn’t.”
She lowers her eyes. “I didn’t want to waste the money.”
“It wasn’t a waste.” I lean closer. “It was to keep you safe.”
“I know now.”
I study her. She means it. But fear like that doesn’t fade just because someone says they understand.
“You don’t make those decisions alone anymore,” I say.
“Why?” she asks in a small voice, slowly raising her eyes to mine.
“Because you’re mine.” I say quietly, smirking when she immediately flushes red. “This means I keep you safe. Even from your own stubbornness.”
A small breath leaves her. “I understand, Daddy.”
She says it like an apology and a question at once. But she’s still trembling—not the soft tremor from before, the other kind. The kind that doesn’t stop on its own. Her hands won’t be still. Her eyes keep darting to the door like the street followed us up here.