Chapter 3 - Reckless
What the fuck am I doing?
The thought hits the second she crosses the threshold into my apartment. Into my space. The place I've kept clean of complications for two solid years.
And now Nora Hayes is standing in my living room holding a container of chicken piccata like it's a peace offering, and I've just invited danger straight through my front door.
Not hers.
Mine.
Because I'm the idiot who couldn't walk away. Who had to get involved. Who's apparently so goddamn lonely that I'm inviting a woman I don't know to eat dinner in my apartment just so I'm not alone for one more night.
Sure as hell isn't because I'm being a gentleman.
I don't know how to be one of those. Never learned. The military doesn't teach you how to pull out chairs and make small talk. It teaches you how to survive, how to follow orders, how to come home with pieces missing that nobody can see.
I haven't been this close to a woman in… Christ, I can't even remember. Unless ring girls count, and those are only in certain matches. They don't look at me. Don't talk to me. They're just bodies moving through space while men like me bleed for entertainment.
This is different.
Nora is different.
She's standing three feet away, still wearing that oversized hoodie, auburn hair falling loose around a face that's too pale. Those hazel eyes are doing what mine do—scanning exits, checking corners, cataloging threats.
She's military-adjacent. Or trauma-adjacent. Same survival instinct, different war.
"You can sit." The words come out rougher than I mean them to. I gesture toward the couch, the only real furniture in here besides a TV stand and a coffee table my brother built from scrap wood.
She doesn't move. Just stands there holding the food container like she's reconsidering every choice that led her here.
Smart girl.
"Or you can leave," I add. "No pressure."
That breaks something. Her shoulders drop half an inch. "No, I… Sorry. I'm just not used to—" She stops. Starts again. "Your apartment is nice."
It's not. It's bare. Functional. A couch, a TV, weights in the corner because some nights the only thing that quiets my head is lifting until my muscles scream. Kitchen table with two chairs. Nothing on the walls because I don't have anything worth hanging.
"You're a terrible liar," I tell her.
A ghost of a smile crosses her face. Gone before I can be sure I saw it. "My mother would disagree. She always said I was too honest for my own good."
The way she says *mother* makes it clear there's no love in that word.
"Your parents are the ones who tried to marry you off to Castellano?"
Her face shuts down. Complete lockdown. Every emotion wiped clean like I hit a switch. Fuck. Too fast. Too direct. I'm shit at this.
"You don't have to answer that," I say quickly. "None of my business."
"They did." The words come out flat. Dead. "They signed the papers. Made the arrangements. Told me it was an honor to be chosen by someone so powerful." She finally moves, walking toward the couch but not sitting. "They didn't care that I said no. That I begged. That I told them I'd rather die."
The buzzing in my ear gets louder. Not the phantom noise from Kandahar. Real anger, sharp and hot.
"So, you ran."
"So, I ran." She sets the food container on the coffee table. "Took everything I'd been saving and disappeared in the middle of the night. Changed my phone. Cut everyone off. Came here because it was small and quiet and nobody knew me."
"But they found you anyway."
"They found me anyway." She wraps her arms around herself. "I don't know how. I was so careful."
I think about the men in the parking lot. Tactical pants, boots, the way they moved. Professional. Trained.
"They probably tracked your credit card," I say. "Or your car registration. Maybe both."
She goes even paler. "I paid cash for everything. Haven't used my card since I left."
"Car registration is public record. They run your plates, find out where you registered it, start looking in the area." I shrug. "It's not magic. Just resources and time."
"Oh god." She sits down hard on the couch. "I didn't think… I was so focused on not leaving a digital trail I didn't think about—"
"Most people don't." I grab the food container, head toward the kitchen. Need something to do with my hands before I say something else that sends her running. "You did better than most already. Burner phone, cash only, cutting contact. That's smart."
I hear her follow me. The kitchen is smaller than hers probably, barely room for one person, definitely not two. But she hovers in the doorway anyway.
"You sound like you know what you're talking about."
"Military." I pull plates from the cabinet. Real ones, not paper. My brother insisted when we moved in. Said eating off paper plates every night was depressing. "You learn things. About tracking people. About not being tracked."
"How long were you in?"
"Long enough." I don't talk about my time in. Not with anyone except Rampage, and even that's mostly silence that understands itself. "Got out three years ago."
I can feel her watching me. Studying. Trying to figure out what kind of man invites a stranger into his apartment.
Trying to figure out if she's safe here.
Fair question. I'm asking myself the same thing.
I split the food between two plates. There's enough for both of us. Chicken in a lemon-butter sauce that smells incredible, pasta, roasted vegetables that actually look appetizing.
When's the last time someone cooked for me?
Never. The answer is never.
My brother can barely boil water. The military fed me slop. And since I got out, I've been living on protein shakes and whatever doesn't require more than a microwave.
"You didn't have to make all this," I say, handing her a plate.
"I like cooking." She takes it like she's afraid our fingers might touch. "It helps me think."
"What were you thinking about?"
"Like you said, leaving." Honest. Direct. "I was going to make this, bring it to you, then pack my bags and disappear tonight."
"But you're still here."
"You invited me to dinner." She looks down at her plate. "And I haven't eaten a real meal with another person in over a week. Turns out that matters more than I thought it would."
I grab forks from the drawer. Lead her back to the living room because the kitchen table feels too formal. Too much like a date.
This isn't a date.
This is… I don't know what this is. We sit at opposite ends of the couch. Enough space between us for safety. For pretending this is normal.
I take a bite of the chicken and—
"Jesus."
Nora freezes. "What? Is it bad? I thought I—"
"It's perfect." I take another bite. "This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"YouTube, mostly." She's still not eating, just watching me. "And practice. I had a lot of time to practice when I lived with my parents. They didn't pay attention to me unless I did something wrong, so cooking was safe."
Safe. That word again.
"They didn't deserve you," I say.
She blinks. "You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." I point my fork at her plate. "Eat. You made it."
She does. Small bites at first, like she's testing whether it's okay to take up space in my apartment. To exist here.
We eat in silence for a while. It should be awkward. Two strangers who met four hours ago in a parking lot, now sitting on a couch sharing dinner.
It's not awkward. It's quiet. The good kind. The kind where the buzzing in my ear fades to background static and my shoulders unknot half an inch.
"Can I ask you something?" Nora's voice is soft.
"Yeah."
"Why did you help me? In the parking lot. You didn't know me. Didn't owe me anything. You could have just walked past."
I could have. Should have.
"You asked them to leave you alone," I say. "They didn't listen. That was enough."
"Most people would have—"
"I'm not most people." It comes out harder than I mean it to. "And you shouldn't have to beg to be left alone. Nobody should."
She's quiet for a long moment. When I look over, she's staring at her plate. Her hair's falling forward, hiding her face.
"My parents used to tell me I should be grateful," she says finally. "That a man like Castellano wanted me. That I wasn't pretty enough or thin enough or special enough to have options, so I should take what I was offered and be happy."
The anger is back. Hot and sharp.
"Your parents were wrong."
"Were they?" She looks up. Those hazel eyes are wet but she's not crying. Not letting herself. "Look at me. I'm nobody. I work in accounting. I'm nothing special. Why would you risk yourself for—"
"Stop." The word comes out like a command. Military-sharp. She flinches and I force myself to breathe. "You're not nothing. And whether you're special or not doesn't matter. You're a person who said no. That's enough."
"That's not how the world works."
"It's how my world works."
We're staring at each other now. Three feet of space between us that feels like three inches. I should look away. Should finish eating. Should remember that getting involved in her problems is the last thing I need.
But she's looking at me like I just said something impossible. Like the idea that someone would help her without wanting something in return is foreign.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For dinner. For everything."
"You made dinner."
"You know what I mean."
Yeah. I do.
I go back to eating because it's easier than examining whatever the hell is happening in my chest. The chicken really is perfect. The kind of meal that tastes like someone gave a damn.
"This Castellano," I say after a while. "How dangerous is he really?"
Nora sets her fork down. "Very. He owns half the businesses in my hometown. Has connections everywhere. Police, judges, politicians. People who cross him disappear."
"Disappear how?"
"Just disappear. One day they're there, the next they're gone. No body. No investigation. Nothing."
Great. So not just rich and connected. Actually dangerous.
"And he wants you back."
"He wants what he paid for." The bitterness in her voice could strip paint. "My parents took his money. Made promises. As far as he's concerned, I'm his property."
"You're not property."
"Try telling him that."
I set my own plate down. Lean forward with my elbows on my knees. "Those men will come back. Probably with more friends. Your apartment isn't safe."
"I know. That's why I was going to leave."
"Running won't fix this. You said it yourself. They found you once. They'll find you again."
"So, what do I do?" Her voice cracks. "I can't fight him. Can't hide forever. Can't—"
"You stay here."
The words are out before I can stop them.
Nora stares at me. "What?"
What the fuck am I doing?
"You stay here," I repeat, committed now. "My apartment. They probably know which unit is yours. They don't know mine. Gives us time to figure out a real plan."
"I can't… That's not… You don't even know me."
"Know enough." I use the same words from the hallway. "Know you make the best chicken piccata I've ever had. Know you're running from something you didn't choose. Know those men aren't going to stop because you asked nicely."
"This is insane."
"Probably." I sit back. "But it's better than you running blind with no plan and no backup."
She's shaking her head. "You could get hurt. Castellano doesn't care about collateral damage."
"Neither do I."
"Marcus—"
"You got anywhere else to go? Anyone else to call?"
She doesn't answer. That's answer enough.
"Stay here tonight," I say. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we figure out next steps. If you still want to run, I'll help you do it smart. But tonight, you're safe."
"Why are you doing this?"
Because I'm lonely. Because I haven't had a real conversation with anyone other than my brother or Rampage in months. Because you looked at me in that parking lot like I was something other than broken.
"Because it's the right thing to do," I say instead.
She stares at my face. Looking for the lie. The angle. The thing I want in return. She won't find it. Because I don't know what I'm doing. I don’t know why I'm offering this. Just know that sending her back to her apartment alone feels wrong in a way I can't explain.
"Okay," she finally whispers. Uncertain. "Okay. Just for tonight."
Just for tonight.
We both know it's a lie.
But we pretend anyway.