2. Stellan
STELLAN
Seventeen steps from the main door to the back room.
I count them again as I make another circuit of the common area, my boots heavy on the worn floorboards.
Seventeen steps, four reinforced windows, three exit points, six women under my protection.
The numbers ground me, give my mind something to hold onto that isn't the chaos of war preparation or the woman with copper highlights in her hair who just walked through the door like a sunrise walking into a funeral.
Kieran assigned me to interior security this morning.
I wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that I'm better used on the perimeter where my particular skills actually matter, where the beast inside me can be an asset instead of a liability.
I wanted to remind him that I've been tracking Bloodtusk financial movements for weeks, that I was close to finding their main supply chain, that numbers and spreadsheets are where I belong.
Safe. Contained. Useful without being dangerous.
I didn't argue. Because she's here. Esmerelda.
And now I can smell her perfume from ten feet away, something soft and floral that cuts through the motor oil and gun metal and sweat of a clubhouse preparing for war.
I can hear her voice, warm and melodic, as she talks to June on the cots along the back wall.
I can feel the weight of my own attention on her like a physical thing, a pressure I can't seem to relieve no matter how many times I look away.
The hum in my mind, the constant static that's been my companion for fifteen years, should be louder right now.
The war is escalating, brothers are arming up, danger is pressing in from all sides.
By all rights, the beast should be straining against its chains, hungry for the violence it knows is coming.
Instead, the hum is quieter than it's been in weeks, almost peaceful, like the monster inside me is too busy watching her to remember that it's supposed to be a monster.
I don't know what that means. I'm afraid to find out.
Twenty-three steps around the perimeter of the main room, checking sight lines, cataloging threats.
The motion keeps me moving, keeps me from standing in one place and staring at her like the lovesick fool I refuse to become.
My size makes stealth impossible, but I've learned over the years how to be present without being noticed, how to fade into the background despite taking up more space than anyone else in the room.
It's a survival skill, making yourself invisible when you're seven feet tall and built like a natural disaster.
She noticed me anyway.
I felt the exact moment her gaze found me, a prickle of awareness at the back of my neck that had nothing to do with threat assessment.
When I made the mistake of looking, she was watching me with those warm brown eyes, her expression curious rather than afraid, and something in my chest clenched so hard I forgot how to breathe.
I looked away first. I always do.
Better that she thinks I'm rude than that she sees the truth.
Better that she keeps her distance, stays safe in her soft world with her kind heart, never knowing that the scarred monster by the door has been watching her for months with a devotion that borders on obsession.
She's Kira's friend, bright and warm and nurturing, the kind of woman who makes everyone around her feel valued.
I've watched her at parties and gatherings, always from the edges, always in the shadows.
I've memorized the way she laughs, full-bodied and unrestrained, the way she touches people's arms when she talks to them, the way she remembers everyone's coffee order and birthday and favorite song.
She's everything soft in a world that has no room for softness. She's light, and I'm the darkness that would swallow her whole if I let myself get too close.
The Treasury files are still on my laptop in the back office, abandoned when the lockdown order came through.
I should be working on them. I was close to something, a pattern in Bloodtusk's property purchases that suggested they were building toward something bigger than territorial skirmishes.
Numbers don't flinch when I look at them.
Spreadsheets don't make my heart race or my hands ache to touch.
Financial analysis is safe, controlled, a place where my mind can work without the beast stirring underneath.
But Kieran put me on interior rotation, and Kieran's word is law, and the real reason I didn't argue is because interior rotation means being in the same room as her. Breathing the same air. Close enough to protect her if everything goes wrong.
The beast likes that idea. It likes it too much.
I pause by the window nearest the back room, checking the reinforced glass for the third time in an hour.
Outside, brothers move in tactical patterns, weapons ready, eyes scanning the perimeter.
Roman is coordinating the exterior teams with the calm efficiency that makes him invaluable.
Barrett is in the command center with Kieran, their voices a low murmur of strategy and contingency planning.
Everyone has a role, a purpose, a place in the machinery of war.
My place is here. Watching. Waiting. Counting.
Forty-seven heartbeats since she laughed at something June said.
The sound reached me across the room like a physical touch, warm and bright, and the hum in my mind went so quiet I could almost forget it was there.
That's new. That's terrifying. The beast doesn't go quiet for anything, not in fifteen years, not since Mira, not since I understood what I really am.
But it goes quiet for her.
I don't understand it. I don't trust it. I can't afford to believe it means anything, because believing would be the first step toward hoping, and hoping would be the first step toward reaching, and reaching would be the first step toward destroying everything she is with everything I am.
"Coffee, big guy?"
Marcus appears at my elbow, two mugs in his hands, that ridiculous grin on his face.
He's the youngest patched member, barely into his twenties, still optimistic in a way that makes me feel ancient.
He's also the only one who approaches me casually, who treats me like a brother instead of a bomb that might go off.
I've never decided if that makes him brave or stupid.
"I'm fine," I say, the words coming out softer than I intend. I always speak softly. Loud would be threatening, and I'm threatening enough already.
"You've been standing here for an hour without moving. That's not fine, that's statue cosplay." He pushes a mug into my hands, ignoring my attempt to refuse. "Drink. I already gave cups to the ladies. Your girl seemed grateful."
My girl. The words hit me like a punch to the chest, and I have to count to seven before I can respond. "She's not my girl."
"Sure she's not." Marcus's grin widens. "That's why you've been watching her like she's the last sunrise you'll ever see. Very casual. Very subtle."
"I'm on security detail."
"Security detail involves looking at all the women, not just the pretty brunette with the nice laugh." He raises an eyebrow, amber eyes sharp with amusement. "I'm young, not blind. You've got it bad, Stellan."
The beast stirs at his words, at the casual way he talks about her, at the implication that he noticed her laugh too.
For one heartbeat, I imagine my hands around his throat, and the violence of the thought shocks me so badly that I take a step back, putting distance between us, counting under my breath. Seven. Seven. Seven.
Marcus watches me, and something shifts in his expression. The grin fades into something more serious, more knowing than I expected from someone his age.
"Hey," he says quietly. "I'm not trying to step on toes. Just making an observation." He pauses. "For what it's worth, she was asking about you earlier. Wanted to know which one was Stellan."
The information lodges in my chest like a splinter, painful and precious. She asked about me. She saw me watching and instead of being afraid, she was curious enough to ask my name.
"What did you tell her?"
"That you're a teddy bear." His grin returns, smaller this time. "Don't worry, I kept your terrifying reputation mostly intact."
Before I can respond, he's moving away, weaving through the common room with easy grace, probably heading to his next post on interior rotation.
I watch him go, this kid who somehow decided that befriending the club's berserker was a good idea, and I feel something dangerously close to affection.
He's been trying to make me smile for two years. He's succeeded exactly four times.
The coffee is too strong. I made it myself, before the lockdown, before she arrived, before my entire world narrowed down to the copper highlights in her hair and the sound of her laugh. I drink it anyway, letting the bitterness ground me, counting the seconds between sips.
In the back room, Esmerelda is helping June organize supplies.
Her movements are efficient but gentle, every action infused with the same warmth she brings to everything.
She's talking about something, I can't hear what, but June is actually responding, which is more than I've seen from the quiet mechanic in months.
Whatever Esmerelda is doing, it's drawing June out of her shell, making her feel safe enough to engage.
That's what Esmerelda does. She makes people feel safe.
The irony isn't lost on me. The safest woman I've ever known, making everyone around her feel protected, and here I am, the most dangerous man in the room, assigned to protect her.
It's a joke the universe is playing on both of us.
She deserves a guardian who doesn't count his heartbeats to keep from losing control.
She deserves someone whose hands don't ache to touch her and tear apart anyone who threatens her in equal measure.