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The house settles into an uneasy sense of quiet. Walker disappears down the hall without another word. I find a bedroom that smells like lavender and dust, peel off my heels, and collapse on top of the covers. My mind chews through everything and nothing.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

I wake to the world off-kilter, lifted from darkness. Arms around me, strong, unyielding, and careful not to touch too much. Walker, carrying me. My body tenses.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He doesn’t break stride. “Go to sleep, little toy.”

I frown, fighting the urge to squirm. “Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t even look at me. “To bed. I’m not sleeping in the same house as you and not having you beside me.”

His voice is rough, final. The old Poppy would’ve snapped, would’ve fought. Tonight, I just let him carry me. Maybe I want to see what it feels like to belong somewhere, even if it’s only in his arms, just for a few hours.

Chapter Eight

Stillness Before Chaos

Walker

Brutal lightning strikes illuminate the bedroom we camp out in. The house’s skeleton is lit in a stark reminder of its structure, these wooden bones that hold the roof over our heads as the thunder and winds rage outside. Rain lashes the glass, obscuring the fields beyond.

And for what I suspect is the first in many nights, Poppy sleeps soundly at my side amidst it all. During a storm of terrifying proportions that might scare a regular person, she curls against my chest on my least injured side. Her hand rests softly over my ribs, our fingertips touching as I watch the storm, half levered up.

Insomnia is an old friend. There’s a reason this life is mine and this house remains empty, year after year. And in these quiet hours when I’m not working or eating the road by the mile, my mind turns over.

I knew she was Tyrant’s daughter before she told me. Still, that didn’t lessen the betrayal. Princess. Judge. She knew my name and didn’t flinch when I tried to call her out on it. All the clues were there. My brain refused to put them together because I didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to call her out for what she was.

A Saint.

Even now, I stroke my fingers through her hair, letting scarred, roughened skin tangle in silky strands. Then she was fierce. Stunning. Fire. Now, she’s vulnerable and trusting, pressed to me as though I’m the man she might tie herself to for some version of the future where we can live in a house and have a nuclear fucking family.

That will never be me.

“I’m sorry, cosita,” I whisper when the sky is finally silent and only rain accosts the house. “I can’t be what you want. I’m no knight, and I don’t wear armor. If you want a prince ... perhaps you should be with your own club. Maybe your father could pick someone more suitable for you.” I say the words even as my heart tears at the thought of handing her back to that monster.

Better that she’d finished the job at his gates and walked over my corpse than make me take her back and deliver her to him. Knowing he’ll hurt her again and again for her failure. Then all the stitches in the world won’t help when war comes to her. Because of me.

“You’re thinking loudly,” she murmurs. Lightning flashes, highlighting the sharp angle of her cheekbone, her jaw.

I stroke along there, and then reach down and pull her up along my body, until her head rests over my heart. Poppy kicks her feet free over the blanket and tucks them between my knees in the V where I make space for her.

“I know why you bled me.” I kiss the top of her head. “I’m grateful.”

She stirs, and presses her lips to my bare chest. “You’re thankful I stabbed you?”

“I’m glad you knew to get yourself out of trouble with your father by proving your capability in front of him.” I kiss the top of her head, then catch her chin and turn her face up to meet mine. “Then yes. I’ll be your pincushion if it prevents you from being hurt anytime.” From that asshole, absolutely. He hurt her by accident, for fuck’s sake. Who knew what he’d do if he actually intended to hurt her.

Poppy leans up, stretching, and lets her mouth graze mine. “I wanted you to pass out up the road so I could drive, but then you might have fallen off the bike,” she admits.

“You wanted me to pass out?” I raise both eyebrows. “That’s ... sweet.”

“Isn’t it?” She looks inordinately proud of herself. “You fight a lot, Walker. Unconscious you is so much easier. And then, I could tease you as you woke, and...” She wiggles a little on my lap.

I clear my throat, amused. “Yeah. I figured out how that one worked. Good for you.”