Page 22 of North’s Claim

I am. Every part of me aches.

Back at North’s house, I clean. Cook. Do the laundry. Fold his shirts like they deserve respect. Leave the receipts for what I bought on the counter along with my wallet and phone.

I down more water and Gatorade like Cutter told me. Then I crash onto the couch, tug a blanket around my body, and let my eyes close for just a second. The door creaks open and I shoot up, forgetting the blanket. I tumble off the couch, hitting the ground with a loud thud, then a low chuckle follows.

North walks over, grinning. “You fall for me already?”

I groan, grabbing the blanket. “Not funny.” I bite my tongue because I shouldn’t talk back.

He helps me up, that grin still lingering. “You good?”

I nod, cheeks burning.

He heads toward the hallway but stops at the counter. Two bags. The receipts. His brows knit together.

“That all you got?” he asks.

I don’t look at him. “I don’t need more.”

He mutters something, grabs the phone, and barks into it. “Yeah. When I told you everything a woman needs, I mean it. Get everything she might like. I don’t care what it costs. Bring it by tomorrow.”

Panic tightens my chest. I dart forward, gently touch his arm. “Please. What I brought is more than enough.”

He looks down at me. Like he’s weighing the truth in my voice.

“Tomorrow morning. First thing, Vero.” He hangs up.

“You need to forget whatever the fuck that bastard did to you,” he mutters. “This ain’t that place. You’re not that girl anymore.”

I want to believe it, but I don’t know how.

He heads to the bathroom.

By the time he’s out, dinner is ready. I sit at the table, unsure if I should start. He drops into his seat, takes a bite and pauses.

Then eats like he hasn’t all day.

I watch the way his eyes close after the first few bites. The way his shoulders drop. It’s a tiny win, but I hold onto it like it’s everything, because in my world, tiny wins are what you survive on.

After dinner, he doesn’t say much. I gather the plates, clean everything up, dry my hands on a towel, and hover for a moment in the quiet. I’m not used to this. Not used to a night that ends without fists, commands or punishment.

I move toward the bedroom and pause.

He’s already on the bed, a book in hand, shirtless, tattoos dancing along his chest under the soft light.

I clear my throat. “Um… do you want me to sleep on the couch?”

He doesn’t look up. “Do I look like I want to hear you fall on your ass again?”

I frown. “You laughed.”

He glances at me then. “And I will again. But you ain’t sleeping on the floor, or the couch. Or that deathtrap you call an armchair.”

Chapter 9

North

It’s been a week since I brought Nyxa to Ravell.