She fidgets with her lip as she studies me, her eyes narrowed, like she wants to find a hole in my logic but can’t. Like it makes sense, but she still doesn’t trust me.

And I get it. Trust isn’t something that’s given—it’s something that’s earned. Someone like her?

A woman who’s spent too long under a tyrant’s rule, a man who was supposed to love her and not abuse her . . . A woman who learned that safety is an illusion wrapped in false promises.

It’ll take time.

It’ll take patience.

It’ll take proving, over and over, that I’m not another person who’s going to trap her, control her, or break her down just because I can.

“Fine, but can we go somewhere that’s not here?” she asks. “I’m sure the doctor will be publishing my life in the town square before we’re out of the clinic.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re not right, but not wrong either. The staff can be chatty, but maybe . . . let me ask to see if we can go somewhere else.”

This is really the last thing I wanted, Sanford involved in the town and my current situation, but there’s no other way to help her. When I give him the rundown, he says he’ll take care of it. In the meantime, I should just head to the hotel to get her stuff out and just move her upstairs. The unit has the basics, a bed, and a table, but next week he’ll have the rest of the furniture. Of course, he’ll send me the bill once everything is settled—unless The Organization needs a job, and then that’s how I’ll pay my dues.

I’m not sure if this is a good idea, but we don’t have that many options, do we?

Chapter Thirteen

Atlas

The next morning, I’m at The Honey Drop, not sure what part of You need to quit that job she didn’t understand.

Blythe moves behind the counter like she’s been here forever, smiling, chatting with customers, handing out lattes like last night’s argument never happened.

Like I didn’t explicitly tell her, this wasn’t a good idea.

When it’s my turn, I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “I thought we agreed you were done with this place.”

She doesn’t miss a beat, grabbing a cup and marking it with some complicated order before answering.

“We didn’t agree on anything,” she says, reaching for the syrup bottles.

I step closer, gently stopping her hand before she can pump whatever sugary nonsense is about to go into that cup. Her eyes flick up, startled, but I don’t let go.

She’s so damn stubborn.

Her jaw tightens. “Seriously?”

I raise a brow. “Dead serious.”