Chapter 6 - Wraith
She's safe with me.
Quinn says it like a vow, standing in my kitchen at eleven o'clock at night having just demonstrated in approximately three seconds that she could take me apart if she wanted to, and all I can think about is how close her body was to mine during those three seconds, how her hands felt locked around my wrist and elbow, how she smelled like something clean and warm even after a full day of unpacking, of reading bedtime stories and being the most competent person I've met in years.
This is a problem.
This is a significant problem, actually, because I don't think about women this way anymore.
Haven't in four years. Made a choice after Kate left that everything goes to Mariah, that I don't have the bandwidth or the emotional real estate for attraction or want or any of the messy complicated feelings that come with letting someone get close.
And it's worked. It's been fine. I've been fine.
Except now there's Quinn Nash standing in my kitchen in yellow socks with little bees on them, and my brain is running at approximately a hundred miles per second trying to reconcile the soft-looking woman who read Where the Wild Things Are in perfect character voices with the one who just controlled my entire arm with three points of contact and made it look effortless.
"You okay?" she asks, and I realize I've been staring at her for too long without saying anything.
"Yeah. Sorry. Just processing."
"I know it's a lot. Seeing it versus hearing about it."
That's not what I'm processing, but I'm not about to tell her that. "Ranger taught you that?"
"Him and our father, some of it. The rest I learned in the military—hand-to-hand combat training, close-quarters defense, how to disable a threat when you can't reach your weapon." She tilts her head slightly. "You want me to show you more, or was that enough?"
More would mean her putting her hands on me again, would mean her body close to mine, would mean my brain short-circuiting even further than it already has. "That's enough. I believe you."
She nods, seemingly satisfied, and moves back toward the living room. I follow because the alternative is standing alone in my kitchen having feelings about my daughter's babysitter, which is definitely not allowed.
Quinn settles back onto the couch, pulls her legs up underneath her again, and I notice for the first time how flexible she must be to fold herself up that comfortably. Military training, probably. Or yoga. Do soldiers do yoga? I have no idea. My brain is not functioning at full capacity right now.
I sit back down on my end of the couch and try to redirect my thoughts to literally anything else.
"How long were you in?" I ask, because talking about her service record is professional and appropriate.
"Six years. Joined at twenty-one, got out at twenty-seven."
I do the math. "You've been out for seven years?"
"Yeah." She picks at a loose thread on her jeans. "Took me a while to figure out what to do after. The military gives you structure, purpose, and a clear mission. Civilian life is just... a lot of noise."
"What did you do? For those seven years?"
"Tried a bunch of different things. Worked security at a concert venue for a while, mostly just standing around looking intimidating, breaking up the occasional fight.
Did some private bodyguard work, but that was too much travel.
Worked at a gym for two years, taught self-defense classes.
" She pauses. "Spent eight months drinking too much and accomplishing nothing. That wasn't great."
The honesty catches me off guard. Most people don't admit the bad parts that fast, especially not to someone they just met. "What changed?"
"Woke up one morning and realized I was turning into my father. And that was unacceptable." She says it flatly, no room for argument. "So, I stopped drinking, started going to the gym every day, got my shit together. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"I still have nightmares sometimes. Still wake up thinking I'm back overseas, or back in my childhood bedroom waiting for my dad to come home drunk." She meets my eyes. "Some things don't leave just because you want them to."
I know exactly what she means. I still have nightmares about my father, too, about Kate walking out, about Mariah crying for her mother and me not knowing how to make it better. Still wake up sometimes convinced I've failed at the one thing that matters most.
"Yeah," I say. "Some things don't leave."
We sit in that shared understanding for a moment, two people carrying scars we didn't ask for but learned to live with anyway.
"Can I ask you something?" Quinn says.
"Sure."
"Why Wraith? For your road name."
I almost smile. "You know what a wraith is?"
"A ghost. A spirit. Something that moves unseen."
"That's exactly it. When I plan something, I see every angle, every possibility, every move three steps ahead.
I'm the one who thinks about what nobody else is thinking about, who catches the details everyone else misses.
Phoenix said I was like a ghost in the planning room, there but not there, seeing things nobody else could see. " I shrug. "It stuck."
"It fits you," she says. "The way you move, the way you think. Like you're always three steps ahead and the rest of us are still figuring out step one."
"Is that what you see when you look at me?"
"I see someone who's carrying a lot of weight and doing it alone because that's what he's had to do," she says slowly. "I see someone who loves his daughter so much it terrifies him. And I see someone who's very good at planning everything except how to let someone help him."
"I'm not good at asking for help."
"I noticed." She says it gently, not like criticism. "But you did ask, Dean. You hired me. You let me into your house, into your daughter's life. That took a lot of trust."
"Ranger vouched for you. That made it easier."
"Still." She shifts slightly on the couch, and I try very hard not to notice how the movement makes her shirt ride up slightly, exposing an inch of pale waist. "I know what it's like to have to do everything alone.
To feel like you can't trust anyone because everyone who was supposed to protect you didn't. It's exhausting. "
"Yeah," I say, because what else is there to say? She's right. It is exhausting. It's been exhausting for four years, and I've gotten so used to it I forgot what it felt like to have someone offer to share the load.
"You don't have to do it alone anymore," Quinn says. "At least not the Mariah part. I've got her, Dean. You can trust that."
And the thing is, I do trust it. I trust her, which is insane given we met less than twelve hours ago, but Ranger's vouching combined with watching her with Mariah and the demonstration she just gave me in the kitchen has convinced some fundamental part of my brain that she means what she says, that she'll keep my daughter safe no matter what.
"I should go to bed," I say, because this conversation is getting too close to places I don't know how to navigate. "Long day tomorrow. Phoenix wants increased patrols, extra security measures. I need to map out new routes, timing, backup plans."
"Of course." Quinn unfolds herself from the couch, stands, and I stand too because it's the polite thing to do. We're facing each other now, close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to, which I absolutely do not want to do, absolutely not.
"Thank you," I say. "For tonight. For showing me what you can do, for talking with me. I know this arrangement is weird. Living in someone's house, being responsible for their kid, all of it happening so fast."
"It's not weird," she says. "It's just different. And different can be good."
We look at each other for a long moment, and there's something in her eyes… Warmth, maybe, or so I hope.
"Goodnight, Quinn."
"Goodnight, Dean."
I head upstairs, force myself not to look back, force myself to walk past her room without pausing, force myself into my own room where I close the door and lean against it like I've just run a marathon instead of having a simple conversation on my couch.
This is fine. This is manageable. Quinn is here to protect Mariah, to help with the day-to-day logistics of keeping a five-year-old safe during a war, and nothing else.
The fact that she's beautiful in a way that doesn't try to be, that she's competent and kind and sees through my walls like they're made of glass, that her hands on my arm made my brain short-circuit, none of that matters. None of that can matter.
I cross to my dresser, pull out sleep clothes, change.
My room is sparse: queen bed with gray sheets, nightstand with a lamp and a framed photo of Mariah, dresser with my clothes and a few personal items. Gun safe in the corner, locked, code known only to me and now Quinn.
Window overlooking the backyard, bars decorative but functional.
I check my phone out of habit. No messages from Phoenix, which is good. No emergencies, no new intel, nothing that requires immediate action.
I should sleep. Should get the rest I'll need for tomorrow's long day of planning and coordination and making sure my brothers don't walk into traps.
Instead, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about Quinn in the room down the hall, thinking about how her voice sounded when she said Mariah was safe with her, thinking about the three seconds in my kitchen when her body was pressed close to mine and my brain stopped functioning like a rational adult's.
This is a complication I don't need. Can't afford. Won't pursue.
I repeat that to myself like a mantra—won't pursue, won't pursue, won't pursue—until I finally fall asleep sometime after one AM.
Next Day
I wake at six out of habit, body refusing to sleep past sunrise even though I only got five hours.
I lie still for a moment, listening to the house.
Quiet. No sounds of Mariah awake yet, no movement from Quinn's room.
Good. That gives me time to shower, get coffee, maybe check in with Phoenix before the day officially starts.
I slip out of bed quietly, grab clothes from my dresser, head to the bathroom. The shower helps clear my head, and by the time I'm dressed and heading downstairs, I feel almost normal again. Almost in control.
The kitchen smells like coffee.
I stop in the doorway, surprised, and find Quinn already at the counter, two mugs out, the coffee maker burbling its last few drops.
She's wearing different clothes than yesterday: soft gray sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt, hair still in the two braids, no makeup, looking comfortable and completely at home in my kitchen like she's been making coffee here for months instead of hours.
"Morning," she says, glancing over her shoulder. "Hope you don't mind. I'm useless without caffeine."
"No, it's… That's fine. Good." I cross to the counter, "Thanks."
She hands me one of the mugs.
"Sleep okay?" she asks.
"Fine. You?"
"Pretty good, actually. Your guest bed is comfortable."
We stand there drinking our coffee in silence, and it should be awkward. Two near-strangers in a kitchen at six-thirty in the morning, but it's not. It's easy. Natural. Like we've done this before.
"What's your plan for today?" Quinn asks.
"Clubhouse by eight. Need to finalize new security protocols, coordinate with Phoenix and Judge about patrol schedules. Probably be there until early afternoon." I take another sip of coffee. "You good with Mariah until then?"
"Absolutely. I was thinking maybe we could do some baking if she's interested. Cookies or something."
The image of Quinn and Mariah in my kitchen covered in flour, laughing over cookie dough, hits me harder than it should. "She'd love that. Fair warning, she'll want to eat all the dough before it makes it to the oven."
Quinn smiles. "I was the same way at her age."
"Ranger let you get away with that?"
"Ranger participated. We were a team." Her expression softens with the memory. "He was always good at making things fun, even when everything else was falling apart."
I want to know more about the childhood she and Ranger escaped, but before I can form the question, a sound cuts through the quiet morning air. Motorcycle engines. Multiple of them. Close and getting closer.