Chapter 8
Three days at the compound, and Paige had learned three things.
First: bikers had opinions about flowers. Strong ones. Loudly expressed.
"More greenery," Tundra said, leaning over her makeshift workstation in the main building. "That one looks naked."
"It's a minimalist arrangement. The negative space is intentional."
"Looks like you ran out of stuff."
"It's for a funeral. It's supposed to be understated."
"Dead people deserve more flowers, not less."
She added a sprig of pine just to shut him up.
Second thing she'd learned: the old ladies ran this compound as much as the brothers did. Different territory, same authority.
Brynn had appeared that morning with a basket of wildflowers and greenery foraged from the compound perimeter—late-season blooms that shouldn't have survived the November cold but somehow had.
Tessa had contributed pine branches and cedar sprigs, her mechanic's hands surprisingly gentle with the delicate stems.
"The forest gives up more than you'd think," Brynn said, watching Paige sort through the haul. "If you know where to look."
"You do this often? Forage for flowers?"
"I do this when someone needs help." Brynn's smile was warm but knowing. "Right now, that someone is you."
Paige had stopped arguing after that.
Third thing she'd learned: Tourniquet was never more than thirty feet away.
She felt him now, positioned at the bar with a clear sightline to her workstation. He'd been there all morning, nursing coffee that had gone cold an hour ago, pretending to read something on his phone while his attention never left her.
It should have felt suffocating. It didn't.
"Your shadow's watching again," Tessa murmured, sorting cedar by length.
"He's always watching."
"That bother you?"
Paige considered the question. The weight of his attention had become familiar over three days—a constant presence, like gravity. She'd stopped noticing it as pressure and started recognizing it as... something else.
"No," she admitted. "It doesn't."
Tessa's mouth curved. "Told you. They run hot."
The Henderson wedding was in two days, and Paige had rebuilt most of the arrangements from scratch.
Gas station carnations from the Ely convenience store.
Wildflowers from Brynn's foraging expedition.
Pine and cedar for structure. It wasn't what she'd originally designed, but it was beautiful in a different way—wilder, more organic.
Minnesota flowers for a Minnesota wedding.
She worked through the afternoon, hands moving with the muscle memory of four years' practice. Brothers drifted through the main building, offering commentary, stealing glances, pretending they weren't curious about the woman who'd taken over a corner of their clubhouse.
"That one looks like something died in it," Ironside observed, pointing at a sympathy arrangement.
"It's for a funeral. Something did die."
He grunted. "Fair."
By late afternoon, she had three arrangements completed and two more roughed out. Her back ached from hunching over the table, her hands were sticky with sap, and she'd drunk enough coffee to fuel a small convoy.
But the work was done. Or close enough.
"Henderson wedding," she said, photographing the centerpiece with her phone. "Carver funeral. Lindquist sympathy. I can finish the rest tomorrow."
"You've been at this for eight hours." Tourniquet appeared beside her, close enough that she caught the leather-and-pine scent that seemed permanently embedded in his skin. "When's the last time you ate?"
"I had coffee."
"That's not food."
"It's caffeinated. Close enough."
His hand found her elbow, grip firm. "Cookout tonight. You're eating actual food. End of discussion."
"Do you give orders to everyone, or am I special?"
"You're special." The words came out rough, almost involuntary. His eyes widened slightly, like he'd surprised himself.
She filed that away. Added it to the growing collection of moments that suggested this wasn't just a protection detail for him.
"Fine," she said. "Cookout. But I'm finishing the Lindquist arrangement first."
"Twenty minutes."
"Thirty."
His jaw tightened. "Twenty-five. And I'm timing you."
She made it in twenty-two.
The cookout spread across the compound's central yard—fire pit blazing against the November cold, folding tables loaded with food, brothers clustered in groups that shifted and reformed like living organisms.
Paige stood at the edge, plate in hand, watching the dynamics play out.
Permafrost held court near the fire, his cold authority softened slightly by the beer in his hand. Tundra and Ice argued about something that involved aggressive hand gestures and occasional profanity. Ironside manned the grill with the focused intensity of a man who took meat seriously.
And Tourniquet circled the perimeter like a satellite in orbit.
She watched him move through the crowd—checking in with brothers, exchanging words too quiet to hear, his attention constantly returning to her. A satellite, yes. But one locked onto her signal specifically.
"He's been like this since he brought you in." Brynn appeared beside her with a fresh beer. "The boys are taking bets on when he'll actually relax."
"What's the over-under?"
"Never." Brynn laughed. "That's the leading theory."
The fire crackled, throwing sparks into the darkening sky. The cold pressed in from all sides, but the heat from the flames kept it at bay. Paige found herself relaxing into the warmth, into the easy rhythm of conversation and laughter that surrounded her.
It reminded her of something.
"This feels familiar," she said, half to herself.
"The cookout?"
"The..." She searched for the right word. "The unit dynamics. The way everyone knows their place. The dark humor and the loyalty that doesn't need explaining."
Brynn's expression softened. "You were Army."
"Two deployments."
"Then you know what this is. Same brotherhood, different uniform."
Paige looked around the yard—brothers ribbing each other, old ladies moving through with plates and refills, the ever-present awareness of security even in a moment of relaxation.
Same brotherhood. Different uniform.
"Yeah," she said. "I do."
Tourniquet appeared at her side, and Brynn melted away with the practiced ease of someone who knew when to give people space.
"You're not eating." He nodded at her still-full plate.
"I'm observing."
"Observe while eating. Ironside's burgers are the only thing he doesn't destroy with his hands."
She took a bite. The burger was good—better than good. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the first taste hit her tongue.
"Better?" Tourniquet asked.
"Don't gloat. It's unattractive."
"I never gloat." But something that might have been satisfaction flickered in his eyes.
They stood together at the edge of the firelight, eating in comfortable silence. The noise of the cookout washed over them—Tundra's booming laugh, the clink of beer bottles, someone's phone playing country music from a portable speaker.
Normal. Almost peaceful.
"This is weird," Paige said.
"What?"
"This. Standing at a biker cookout, eating a burger, while somewhere out there a contractor is planning to kill me." She shook her head. "It feels too normal. Like I should be more scared."
"You've been scared before. In places worse than this."
"That's different. In Helmand, fear was the default. You learned to function through it because the alternative was dying." She looked at him. "Here, I keep forgetting to be afraid. And then I remember, and it feels... wrong. Like I'm letting my guard down."
Tourniquet was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low.
"Fear's useful in the moment. Keeps you sharp, keeps you alive. But carrying it constantly—" He shook his head. "That breaks people. The ones who survive long-term are the ones who learn to put it down between threats."
"Is that what you do?"
"I try." His mouth twisted. "Mostly I just reorganize med kits."
"There are worse coping mechanisms."
"There are." His gaze found hers, held it. "Some people make flower arrangements out of whatever they can find. Build something beautiful because the alternative is drowning in the ugly."
She felt the words land somewhere deep.
"That's either very insightful or very cheesy."
"Probably both."
A shout went up from the fire pit—Tundra challenging someone to a drinking contest, Ironside threatening to cut off burger privileges if anyone puked on his grill. The moment fractured, but the warmth of it lingered.
Tourniquet moved toward the commotion, and she watched him go.
He stopped at each cluster of brothers, exchanging words, checking in. But he also checked hands—subtle glances, assessing. Looking for cuts, scrapes, injuries that might have been overlooked.
At the grill, he restocked the first-aid station Ironside kept beside the propane tank. Burn cream, gauze, the small things that accumulated at any cookout where fire and alcohol intersected.
Then he checked the burn kit itself. Opened it, inventoried the contents, closed it again. Moved on.
Ten minutes later, he circled back and checked it again.
She recognized that behavior. Had seen it in herself every night when she walked her shop before closing—checking the locks once, twice, three times. The preparedness loop that never quite closed, because closing it meant trusting that everything would be okay.
And trusting was harder than checking.
Tourniquet looked up from the burn kit and caught her watching. Something passed between them—recognition, maybe. Understanding.
We're both pretty fucked up, she'd said at the safehouse.
At least we're fucked up together, he'd agreed.
She finished her burger and let the noise of the cookout wash over her.
For the first time in days, the fear stayed quiet.
And the man across the fire pit, running his preparedness loop like a prayer, felt less like a protector and more like something else entirely.
Something that might be dangerous in an entirely different way.