Page 7 of North’s Claim

The cut is heavy, warm, and rough on my shoulders. His scent clings to it, smoke, leather, that settles into my skin and makes me feel like, for the first time in years, I’m not prey.

I breathe in deep. My lungs stretch wider than they’ve dared to in months. It's not just air. It’s a certain kind of quiet. Like silence after a storm.

North didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. He dropped his vest on me like a shield and stepped away like he hadn’t just made the whole damn room stop breathing.

Now, every eye is on us. On me.

My skin crawls under their stares. Myka taught me what happens when men stare too long. When they smile or whisper.

I keep my head low, steps soft behind him. North moves like a loaded gun, silent, coiled, dangerous. He doesn’t look back, but I know he feels me there. Knows I’m following.

But this time... it feels different.

His shoulders are tense. Hands curled at his sides. He’s walking like he’s holding back from tearing something apart. Or someone.

And that terrifies me.

What if I’m next?

Myka always blamed me when he was embarrassed. When he got shown up. Even if I hadn’t said a word. Especially when I hadn’t.

When North halts, I don’t stop in time. I bump into his back, and I catch my breath.

He exhales sharp through his nose.

I freeze.

Then he turns.

His eyes, cold, grey, unreadable, land on me like a brand. I brace for a blow that doesn’t come.

“Keep your head up,” he says. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Now go get your shit.”

The words hit harder than they should. Shame. He says I shouldn’t have it. But I’ve been drowning in it for years. It clings to me like Myka’s sweat.

I swallow and my hands start to shake.

He watches me too closely. Sees more than he should. Then his eyes flick to the side.

“Di,” he calls. “Walk with her.”

“Hey, sunshine. Let’s go get your things.” Denise’s voice cuts in, softer than I expected.

Sunshine. No one’s called me that before.

We walk in silence. My heels crunch against gravel. My legs feel hollow, like they’re made of glass. I’m not sure I can trust them.

“He doesn’t do that for just anyone,” Denise says as we near the bungalow. “North. He doesn’t… claim things he doesn’t mean to keep.”

“Probably just needed to make a point,” I murmur.

She tilts her head. “Maybe. But I think the point was for him.”

Inside the room I shared with Myka, it smells like sweat and stale beer. The walls feel too close. The bed makes my stomach twist.

I grab the only things that are mine: a bag of clothes, my toothbrush, and the little cash I kept hidden in the back of the drawer. Then I stop, look around the room, and leave everything there.

Denise stands near the doorway. Watching. “You might wanna change,” she says gently. “North’s taking you downtown. Riding in that skirt might get someone killed.”