Chapter 9
The compound kitchen was a disaster.
Ivy stood in the doorway two days after arriving, watching a prospect burn eggs while another one searched frantically for a spatula that was hanging six inches from his face.
Coffee grounds scattered across the counter.
Bread going stale because someone had left the bag open.
A refrigerator organized by the "shove it wherever it fits" method.
Her diner instincts screamed.
"You're doing it wrong."
Both prospects turned, faces a mix of confusion and defensiveness. Ivy recognized the look—men who'd never been challenged in a kitchen and didn't know how to handle it.
"Excuse me?"
"The eggs." She moved into the space without waiting for permission, her body remembering three years of breakfast rushes and impossible mornings. "Heat's too high. You're scrambling, not frying—lower the flame, keep them moving."
She took the spatula from the wall hook and demonstrated, dropping the temperature and stirring with the quick, confident strokes of someone who'd cooked ten thousand eggs before these two had probably learned to tie their shoes.
"See? Soft curds. Not rubber."
The prospects exchanged glances. One of them—younger, with a beard that was still finding its shape—crossed his arms.
"We've got it handled."
"You've got burned eggs and chaos." Ivy didn't back down. "I've run a diner for three years. I know what handled looks like, and this isn't it."
"Lady—"
"Her name's Ivy." Splinter's voice cut through the tension like a blade. He stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "And if she says you're doing it wrong, you're doing it wrong."
The prospects' attitudes shifted immediately. Not quite submission, but close enough. The beard uncrossed his arms and stepped back from the stove.
"Fine. Show us."
Ivy showed them.
By noon, she'd reorganized the refrigerator, established a system for bread storage that would keep it fresh for days instead of hours, and taught two reluctant prospects how to make biscuits that didn't taste like construction materials.
It felt good.
More than good—it felt right. Like finding a piece of herself she hadn't realized she'd lost. The diner was gone, maybe forever, but the skills that had kept it running lived in her hands and her instincts.
She could contribute here. Could be more than just someone who needed protecting.
Mae found her in the kitchen around lunchtime, dragging a girl about her age by the hand. Diana, Rachel's daughter—Ivy recognized the dark hair and the serious expression that softened into delight when she saw the plates of sandwiches Ivy had assembled.
"Mama! Diana wants to show me the horses. The real ones. Can I go? Please?"
Ivy looked at the other girl, then at Rachel, who'd appeared behind them with the easy watchfulness of a mother who'd learned to keep track of small bodies in chaotic spaces.
"They'll be supervised," Rachel said. "Casey's taking some of the kids to see the bikes too. It's safe—compound only, nowhere near the gates."
Safe.
The word still felt strange. Foreign. Like a language Ivy was learning to speak after years of forgetting it existed.
"Okay." She crouched to Mae's level. "Stay with the group. Listen to the adults. And come find me if you need anything."
"I will!" Mae was already pulling Diana toward the door. "Love you, Mama!"
"Love you too, baby."
Ivy watched her go, something loosening in her chest at the sight of her daughter running—actually running, with joy instead of fear, toward something instead of away from it.
"She's doing better."
Splinter's voice came from behind her. She turned to find him leaning against the counter, watching her with eyes that saw too much.
"She is." Ivy swallowed. "She laughed this morning. First time in weeks she laughed without looking over her shoulder first."
"Good."
He pushed off the counter and moved toward her, each step deliberate, like he was giving her time to retreat if she wanted to. She didn't move. Didn't want to.
"Got something for her." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small cloth bag. "Been working on it since we got back. Figured she needed it."
Ivy took the bag, feeling the weight of wood inside. She loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm.
Animals.
A whole set of them—horse, rabbit, deer, bear, owl. Each one carved with the same careful attention as the first horse, tiny details that spoke of hours of patient work. A menagerie in miniature, small enough to fit in a child's pocket.
"Splinter..."
"The first horse got left behind. Couldn't get back for it like I promised—too risky going back to the safehouse right now." His voice was gruff, almost embarrassed. "Figured if I couldn't keep that promise, I could at least make a new one."
Ivy's eyes stung. She blinked hard, refusing to cry over wooden animals, but the tears threatened anyway.
"You didn't have to do this."
"Wanted to." His gaze held hers, and the intensity there made her breath catch. "She's a good kid. Deserves good things."
"She's going to lose her mind." Ivy cradled the animals like the treasures they were. "You know that, right? You're going to give these to her and she's going to attach herself to you even more than she already has."
"That a problem?"
The question hung between them.
Ivy thought about Mae's face when Splinter appeared. The way her daughter reached for him automatically now, trusted him without hesitation, had started calling him by name instead of "the quiet one" or "Mama's friend."
Thought about what it meant to let someone become important to a five-year-old who'd already lost one father figure before she could remember his face.
"No," she said finally. "It's not a problem."
Something shifted in Splinter's expression. Not quite a smile, but close. "Good."
He gave Mae the animals that evening.
Ivy watched from across the common room as her daughter upended the bag and discovered each creature one by one, her squeals of delight loud enough to turn heads throughout the compound.
Mae threw her arms around Splinter's neck with the full-body enthusiasm only children possessed, and he caught her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like he'd been catching her his whole life.
"He's good with her."
Beth appeared at Ivy's elbow, holding two cups of coffee. She offered one, and Ivy took it gratefully.
"He is. It scares me a little."
"Because you don't trust it?"
"Because I do." Ivy watched Splinter show Mae how the rabbit's ears could move if you pressed them just right. "I trust him with her, and I've known him less than two weeks. That's not... that's not how I operate. I don't trust people. Especially not men."
"And yet."
"And yet." Ivy took a sip of coffee, let the warmth settle her. "He looks at her like she matters. Not because of me—because of her. Like she's worth paying attention to all on her own."
"That's because she is." Beth's voice was gentle.
"And because he's the kind of man who sees that.
Not all of them do, you know. Some of these brothers are rough around the edges, hard in ways that don't soften even for children.
But the good ones—the ones worth keeping—they know how to be gentle with the things that matter. "
"Is that how you know? If they're worth keeping?"
Beth was quiet for a moment, watching Diana and Mae compare their animal collections with the intensity of small diplomats negotiating treaties.
"I think you know by how they make you feel. Not just safe—that's table stakes around here. But seen. Like they actually give a damn about who you are, not just what you can give them."
Ivy's eyes found Splinter again. He'd settled onto the floor with both girls now, building something out of couch cushions while they directed him with the imperious confidence of tiny generals.
He looked up.
Their gazes locked across the room, and the pull Ivy had been trying to ignore roared to life in her chest. Heat and want and something deeper, something that felt like home even though she'd known him barely two weeks.
He felt it too. She could see it in the way his eyes darkened, the way his hands stilled on the cushion he was holding.
Beth cleared her throat delicately. "I'm going to go check on dinner. You two... figure your stuff out."
She was gone before Ivy could respond.
Mae said something that made Splinter laugh—an actual laugh, low and surprised like it had been startled out of him—and Ivy felt the sound in her bones. This man who barely smiled had just laughed at something her daughter said, and it was the most beautiful thing she'd heard in years.
He looked at her again.
The pull built.
Every time their eyes met now, it grew stronger. A rope drawing tighter, a current gaining force. She could feel herself leaning toward something inevitable, something she'd stopped believing was possible after Mae's father had proven that men didn't stay.
But Splinter stayed.
Stayed when he could have walked away. Stayed when staying meant danger. Stayed through violence and chaos and midnight runs to safehouses, and kept staying when the dust settled and there was nothing left to fight.
He watched her across the room, and she watched him back, and the pull between them built until Ivy could barely breathe with the weight of it.
Maybe, she thought. Maybe this time.
Maybe this man was different.
Maybe she could let herself want something again.
Mae shrieked with laughter as the cushion fort collapsed around her, and Splinter caught her before she could fall, and Ivy stood in the warmth of the compound with coffee in her hands and hope in her chest for the first time in longer than she could remember.
The pull between them built every time their eyes met.
And Ivy stopped trying to resist it.