Her breath caught halfway through her scream—because suddenly, out of nowhere, there were headlights.
Blinding, brilliant white cutting through the dim street like twin suns, followed by the aggressive roar of an engine that sounded like it could tear through steel.
The screech of tires against wet asphalt.
A silver Volvo tearing around the corner so fast it seemed to defy physics, followed by a much deeper, more primal growl—a cherry-red Triumph motorcycle that looked like it had been pulled straight from a magazine cover.
The four men scattered instinctively, their cocky grins faltering in the sudden glare of headlights.
"What the hell—" one of them started, but his voice was drowned out by the engines.
Bella didn't even think.
She darted forward, straight into the middle of the street, throwing up her arms as the silver car skidded to a halt in front of her with the kind of precision that suggested the driver had done this before.
Not that it needed her to stop it.
It stopped anyway—clean, perfect, predatory—as if it had always intended to.
The engine idled with a low, guttural purr that seemed to vibrate through her bones.
And before she could even process what she was doing, the driver's door swung open with enough force to rattle its hinges.
"Get in," Edward said, his voice low and cold as winter.
But it sent a shiver through her all the same—not fear this time. Safety. That absurd, undeniable feeling of safety she only ever seemed to feel around him, even when he looked like he could murder someone with his bare hands.
Which, judging by the way his bronze hair caught the streetlight and his sharp features were set in stone, he very well might.
Bella didn't argue.
She stumbled forward, yanking the passenger door open, and all but collapsed into the leather seat, slamming the door shut behind her with shaking hands.
Edward was already moving—his pale hand on the gearshift, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth—but his dark eyes darted past her to the men still lingering in the road.
"Well, well," came a lazy drawl from behind them, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "Looks like we missed the party."
Bella turned just enough to glimpse Hadrian and Daenerys on the gleaming cherry-red Triumph, its engine rumbling low like a caged beast.
Hadrian sat astride the bike like he'd been born to it, all broad shoulders and casual confidence, his emerald eyes glinting with something that might have been amusement if it weren't so predatory. His dark hair was tousled from the ride, and he wore a leather jacket that looked like it cost more than most people's cars.
Daenerys sat behind him like she belonged there, her arms draped casually around his shoulders, silver hair tumbling down her back in waves that caught the streetlight like spun moonlight. Her violet eyes were fixed on the men with the kind of look that suggested she was deciding whether they were worth her time—or her wrath.
She was stunning in that effortless way that made other girls want to hate her, wearing a cropped leather jacket over a fitted black top that showed just enough skin to be dangerous, paired with dark jeans that hugged her curves like they'd been tailored specifically for her.
"Get her out of here," Hadrian said, his voice carrying that easy authority that suggested he was used to being obeyed. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at the men now backing off toward the sidewalk. "We'll… tidy up."
Daenerys smirked, tightening her hold on him as she glanced at the nearest thug. When she spoke, her voice was honey-sweet with just enough edge to cut glass.
"Oh, don't leave on our account," she purred, tilting her head like a cat watching a mouse. "We were just getting to know each other."
The man she was looking at actually took a step back.
"Look, we don't want any trouble—"
"Trouble?" Daenerys laughed, the sound bright and musical and somehow terrifying. "Sweetheart, you haven't even seen trouble yet."
Hadrian's grin was sharp as a blade. "But you're about to."
Edward didn't reply—not with words.
He simply pressed down on the accelerator and the Volvo lurched forward smoothly, leaving the men, the bike, and the shadows of the alley behind in seconds.
Bella sat rigid in the passenger seat, clutching the edge of her brown jacket, her heart still pounding in her ears as she stared straight ahead through the windshield.
The radio was playing some top 40 hit she didn't recognize, but Edward reached over and snapped it off with more force than necessary.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Edward didn't speak.
But she could feel it—his anger radiating off him like heat from a furnace, his jaw tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
For the first time in what felt like hours, though, Bella breathed.
And that absurd sense of safety—warm and terrifying all at once—settled back into her chest.
She risked a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. His profile was sharp in the dashboard light, all angles and shadows, and she could see the muscle in his jaw ticking.
"Edward," she started, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Don't."
The word came out flat, final.
She swallowed hard, but pressed on anyway. "I just wanted to say thank you—"
"Thank you?" He turned to look at her then, and his eyes were blazing. "Thank you for what, exactly? For almost getting yourself killed? For being stupid enough to wander around Port Angeles alone after dark?"
Bella flinched. "I wasn't wandering around. I was just—"
"Just what?" His voice was getting sharper, more dangerous. "Just asking for trouble? Just begging for something like this to happen?"
"That's not fair," she said, finding her voice. "You don't know what—"
"I know enough." He turned back to the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight she thought it might snap. "I know you have absolutely no sense of self-preservation. I know you seem to actively seek out danger wherever you go. And I know—"
He stopped abruptly, his jaw clenching.
"You know what?" Bella pressed.
Edward was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the hum of the engine and the soft patter of mist against the windshield.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less intense.
"You don't ever," he said, each word carefully enunciated, "walk alone in places like that again. Not here. Not anywhere."
Bella swallowed, not trusting herself to argue.
"Do you understand me?" he continued, glancing at her again. "This isn't negotiable, Bella. You could have been—"
He stopped again, his jaw working.
"Those men could have hurt you," he said finally. "Really hurt you. And if we hadn't shown up when we did..."
Behind them, just faintly through the cracked-open window, she could still hear the growl of Hadrian's bike and what sounded suspiciously like Daenerys's bright laughter carrying down the street.
"Your siblings," Bella said quietly. "They're gonna be okay, aren't they?"
Edward's mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile but couldn't quite manage it.
"Yes," he said. "They're going to be okay."
"They seem... intense."
"That's one word for it."
Bella was quiet for a moment, processing everything that had just happened.
"How did you know where to find me?" she asked finally.
Edward's hands tightened on the steering wheel again.
"I didn't," he said. "We were just... in the area."
It was obviously a lie, but Bella didn't push.
Instead, she settled back in her seat, watching the streetlights blur past the window, and tried to ignore the way her heart was still racing—and the way Edward's presence beside her made her feel both safer and more terrified than she'd ever been in her life.
"Edward?"
"What?"
"What were you really doing in Port Angeles?"
He was quiet for so long she thought he wasn't going to answer.
Then, very quietly, he said, "Following you."
Bella's breath caught.
"Following me?"
"You have a remarkable talent for finding trouble," he said, his voice almost conversational now. "I thought it might be wise to... keep an eye on you."
"That's—"
"Creepy? Stalkerish? Completely inappropriate?"
"I was going to say concerning," Bella said quietly. "But yeah, those work too."
Edward actually did smile then, though it was more of a grimace.
"I'm not good at this," he said.
"At what?"
"Caring about someone."
The words hung in the air between them like a challenge.
Bella felt her heart skip a beat.
"Edward..."
"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't say anything. Just... let me get you home."
Behind them, the sound of the motorcycle was fading, but Bella could swear she heard Daenerys's voice one last time, carried on the wind:
"Boys like that never learn unless someone teaches them."
And then they were gone, leaving only the hum of the Volvo's engine and the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air between them.
—
The low growl of the Triumph finally cut out, leaving the alley quiet but for the sound of four pairs of nervous footsteps shuffling backward across wet pavement.
Daenerys slid down from the back seat with fluid elegance, her heeled boots clicking against the cracked asphalt. She stretched like a cat waking from a nap, silver hair cascading over her shoulders in waves that caught the light like spun moonlight. Her violet eyes swept over the four men with the kind of calm assessment a hawk might give a field mouse.
Hadrian swung his leg off the bike with an almost lazy grace, standing to his full height—six-foot-three of solid muscle and predatory calm. His leather jacket creaked softly as he rolled his shoulders, emerald eyes glinting like twin blades in the dim streetlight filtering through the mist.
"Well, well," Daenerys murmured, her voice carrying that honey-sweet tone that somehow made the temperature drop five degrees. "And here I thought this was going to be a boring Tuesday night."
The leader—a greasy-haired man in his thirties wearing a stained flannel shirt—sneered, trying to muster what little bravado he had left. His three buddies flanked him, but Hadrian could already smell the fear rolling off them in waves.
"Well now," Lanny said, his voice oily and confident in that way that only came from years of getting away with things. "Looks like pretty boy here's lost his mind, bringing his girl into our alley."
He stepped forward, puffing his chest like a rooster trying to bluff its way out of a fight. "Don't care how fancy your bike is, pal. You're in my way. You don't want to see what happens when you mess with—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Hadrian was already in front of him, faster than human eyes could follow, his hand gripping the front of Lanny's grimy flannel shirt and slamming him against the brick wall so hard mortar dust rained down from the impact.
The others froze, their mouths falling open.
Hadrian's voice was soft, conversational, but it carried like a blade through silk:
"You really don't want to finish that thought, Lanny."
Lanny's eyes went wide, his breath coming in short gasps. "H-how... how do you know my name?"
Hadrian's emerald eyes seemed to glow as he pressed deeper into the man's mind, peeling back layers of memory like pages in a book. What he found there made his jaw clench with disgust.
"Because," Hadrian said calmly, his mental voice sliding through Lanny's thoughts like ice water, "you've been very... busy, haven't you?"
Images flashed through his mind—faces of women who'd trusted the wrong person, walked down the wrong street, been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A college student from Seattle two months ago. A waitress from Olympia last fall. Others. So many others.
His lip curled in disgust.
"You don't just harass women, do you, Lanny? You hurt them. You kill them. You think no one notices because you're so very careful about where you dump the bodies."
He leaned in closer, so close Lanny could see the emerald flame in his eyes, smell the faint trace of forest and rain on him.
"Well. I noticed."
Daenerys had been watching the exchange with growing interest, her head tilted like a curious predator. "Oh, is that so?" she purred, stepping closer. "And what exactly has our friend Lanny been up to?"
Hadrian's mental voice brushed against hers—a private communication that made her violet eyes flash dangerously.
*Serial killer. At least seven women over the past two years. Maybe more. He keeps trophies.*
Her smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. "How absolutely fascinating."
Lanny tried to shove Hadrian away, but it was like trying to move a mountain. His bravado finally snapped and he lashed out with a switchblade pulled from his pocket—a gleaming six-inch blade flashing toward Hadrian's ribs.
Hadrian didn't even blink.
With a casual twist of his wrist, the knife clattered to the ground, the blade snapping clean in half.
Then his hand shot out and gripped Lanny's throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing at all.
"I'm going to give you one moment," Hadrian said coldly, his voice carrying that preternatural calm that came before a storm, "to pray to whatever god you believe in. Because after that..." His gaze flicked briefly to Daenerys. "...you're hers."
The three other men tried to bolt—but Daenerys flicked her fingers and the air itself shimmered, heat blooming outward like a furnace had just opened behind them. Her will bent the very elements to her command, conjuring a wall of superheated air that made their skin prickle and their eyes water.
"Where do you think you're going?" she asked, tilting her head with mock concern. "The party's just getting started."
They froze, wide-eyed and trapped, sweat beading on their foreheads from the heat.
Daenerys turned back to Lanny, who was still dangling from Hadrian's grip, his face turning purple.
"So," she said conversationally, flames beginning to dance along her fingertips like living jewelry, "seven women. That we know of."
*The youngest was nineteen,* Hadrian's mental voice whispered to her. *A sophomore at UW. She had brown hair and brown eyes, just like—*
"Just like that sweet little thing who almost became number eight tonight," Daenerys finished aloud, her voice dropping to a purr that somehow managed to sound both seductive and terrifying.
The flames around her hands flared brighter, casting dancing shadows on the brick walls.
"You know," she continued, stepping closer until she was almost nose-to-nose with Lanny, "where I come from, we had a very simple way of dealing with men like you."
She raised her hand, and the flames coiled around her palm like a living thing, casting her face in golden light that made her look like some ancient goddess of vengeance.
"We burned them."
"Please," Lanny wheezed, his voice barely audible through Hadrian's grip. "I—I can pay you. I got money. I got—"
"Money?" Daenerys laughed, the sound bright and musical and absolutely chilling. "Oh, sweetheart. You really don't understand, do you?"
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the alley.
"This isn't about money. This is about justice. This is about making sure you never, ever hurt another innocent girl again."
The flames around her hand suddenly roared to life, forming a perfect sphere of fire that pulsed with her heartbeat.
"And I do so love the smell of justice in the evening."
One of the other men—a thin guy with bad teeth and worse hygiene—finally found his voice. "Look, lady, we don't know what Lanny's told you, but we never—"
"Oh, but you did," Hadrian interrupted, his free hand shooting out to grip the man's shoulder. His mental probe was clinical, efficient, brutal.
*Accessories after the fact. They helped dispose of at least three bodies. The waitress from Olympia—they dumped her in the Sound.*
"Tommy here helped fish a twenty-three-year-old waitress out of Puget Sound last October," Hadrian said aloud, his voice carrying that same conversational tone. "Still had her work uniform on when they weighted her down."
Tommy's face went white as a sheet.
"And Marcus," Hadrian continued, his gaze shifting to a stocky man with prison tattoos, "well, Marcus likes to keep things as souvenirs. Don't you, Marcus?"
Marcus tried to run, but Daenerys flicked her other hand and a wall of flame erupted in front of him, forcing him back.
"Now, now," she chided, wagging a finger at him. "That's terribly rude. We haven't even been properly introduced."
"The fourth one," Hadrian said, looking at a young man who couldn't have been more than twenty, "is new. First time out. But he was planning to graduate from watching to participating tonight."
The kid—barely more than a teenager—dropped to his knees. "I didn't do anything! I swear to God, I didn't—"
"But you were going to," Daenerys said softly. "Weren't you, sweetheart?"
Her flames pulsed brighter, and suddenly the air was thick with the scent of ozone and burning.
"You see," she continued, beginning to circle them like a shark, "here's the thing about evil. It doesn't just happen overnight. It starts small. A crude comment. A grope on a crowded bus. Following a girl home from work."
She stopped in front of the young man, crouching down to his level.
"And then one day, you're helping dispose of bodies. And the day after that, you're the one making them."
She stood again, the flames around her hands growing larger, more intense.
"The question is," she said, her voice carrying that honey-sweet tone that made everyone in the alley shiver, "do we stop it now, or do we wait until you've graduated to your own victims?"
Hadrian's grip tightened on Lanny's throat. "Your call, darling."
Daenerys smiled, and it was like watching the sun rise over a battlefield.
"Oh, I think we both know the answer to that."
She raised both hands, and the flames roared to life around her like a living thing, turning the alley into a furnace.
"Burn them all."
The fire moved like liquid light, flowing from her hands with the precision of a surgeon's blade. It wrapped around each man like a lover's embrace, consuming them from the inside out.
Lanny's scream died in his throat as the flames found him. Tommy tried to run but the fire was faster, hungrier. Marcus made it three steps before the heat turned him to ash. The young man didn't even have time to pray.
It was over in seconds.
Hadrian released his grip on what had been Lanny's throat, letting the wind scatter the ashes into the gutters like so much gray snow.
Daenerys brushed her hands together, the flames dying at her fingertips, her expression serene—like she'd just finished arranging flowers instead of dispensing justice.
"Well," she said brightly, smoothing down her hair, "that was invigorating."
Hadrian's gaze softened as he looked at her, one corner of his mouth tugging upward in that way that made her heart skip.
"You really do have a gift for understatement," he murmured, stepping closer and pulling her into his arms.
She laughed, looping her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the collar of his leather jacket.
"And you," she said, her voice low and teasing, "have a gift for finding the worst possible company."
He chuckled under his breath, pressing a soft kiss to her temple that made her melt against him.
"Team effort, darling."
For a long moment they stood there, alone now in the silent alley, the faint scent of smoke and ash lingering in the damp air. The mist had thickened, creating a curtain that would hide any evidence of what had just transpired.
Then Daenerys pulled back, her smile turning impish.
"You know," she said, climbing back onto the Triumph with a graceful swing of her legs, "I have to admit, I'm rather enjoying this whole 'mysterious protector' thing we've got going."
Hadrian's grin was sharp, fond, and faintly exasperated as he climbed on in front of her.
"Just remember," he said, firing up the engine, "we're supposed to be the good guys."
She pressed closer against his back, her arms wrapping around his waist as she laughed into the wind.
"Oh, we are the good guys," she purred. "We're just very, very good at being bad when we need to be."
The Triumph roared to life, and together they shot out of the alley into the mist-shrouded streets, leaving nothing behind but ashes and silence.
And somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of sirens—but they would find nothing but empty pavement and the lingering scent of smoke that could have come from anywhere.
After all, it was 2005, and security cameras were still a luxury most back alleys couldn't afford.
Justice, as Daenerys had said, had been served.
—
The inside of the Volvo felt like a pressure cooker about to blow.
Not quiet, exactly—the hum of the engine and the rhythmic whir of the wipers filled the space—but charged. Electric. Like every breath Bella took might somehow set Edward off, and every sideways glance he shot her way was a live wire waiting to spark.
She snuck a look at him as the car glided through the dark streets with that unnatural smoothness that made her feel like they were floating rather than driving. He was leaning into the wheel, all long lines and sharp angles, his bronze hair just a little mussed like he'd run his hands through it in frustration. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line that made the elegant curve of his mouth look almost severe.
It was unfair how good he still looked, brooding like that. Like some tortured poet from a French New Wave film, all cheekbones and intensity.
Bella sat rigidly in the passenger seat, fingers twisting in her lap, trying to get her pulse under control. She could still feel the phantom ache of adrenaline burning in her chest, making her hands shake slightly.
The radio was off—Edward had killed it the moment they'd gotten in the car—but she could hear the faint static of what sounded like a police scanner somewhere in the dashboard. Which was... weird. But then again, everything about Edward Cullen was weird.
Then his phone buzzed.
A faint vibration against the center console, but loud enough in the tense quiet to make her jump. The blue LCD screen of his Motorola Razr lit up, casting his face in cold light.
Edward didn't so much as flinch. He reached for it with one long-fingered hand, flipped it open one-handed with that casual grace that made everything he did look effortless, and glanced at the glowing screen.
Whatever he read there made his brow furrow—and for a second, something unfamiliar flashed in his dark gold eyes. Something cold and sharp and predatory.
And then it was gone. His thumb snapped the phone shut, the sound of it loud and final in the small space, and he slid it back into the console like it hadn't happened.
Bella bit her lip, debating. Then—against her better judgment—she asked:
"Was that... one of your siblings?"
His gaze stayed locked on the road, his voice flat and dismissive: "No one you need to worry about."
Her stomach twisted at the abruptness of it, the way he could just... shut down like that. Like slamming a door in her face.
"Oh. Okay," she said, her voice smaller than she meant it to be.
She turned her head to stare out the window, watching the lights of Port Angeles streak past, bright and smeared against the misted glass. A McDonald's sign glowed golden in the distance, and she could make out the familiar bulk of a Blockbuster Video sign through the haze.
For a beat, the silence stretched between them like a taut wire. Then Edward's fingers flexed on the wheel, and he cleared his throat—like he was trying to dial himself back.
"What time is it?" he asked, softer this time.
Bella blinked, pulling her silver Motorola flip phone out of her jacket pocket. The little LCD screen glowed faintly blue in the dim car.
"Uh... it's almost 6:40," she said, frowning at the numbers. "Jessica and Angela are probably about ready to send out a search party. Jessica's probably already texted me like five times."
Edward shot her a sharp look at that. "Then let's not keep them waiting."
The Volvo surged forward, smooth and controlled, but faster now. The speedometer needle crept past 50, then 60, the engine purring like a contented cat.
Bella pressed herself back into the seat, her hands gripping the edge of the leather cushion.
"You know," she muttered, glancing at the speedometer with wide eyes, "most people have to, like... guess where I'm going. Or maybe even ask. Novel concept, I know."
Edward's mouth twitched into what might have been the ghost of a smirk.
"I don't like to waste time guessing," he said simply.
She stared at him, incredulous. "So you just... knew? That I was meeting them at La Bella Italia?"
"Of course," he replied evenly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Bella blinked at him. "I mean, you're not even going to pretend that's not totally creepy?"
That earned her a sideways glance—and a faint, crooked smile that transformed his entire face.
"Would you rather I pretended?" he asked, his voice dry as autumn leaves.
Bella sputtered. "Well—yes! That's what normal people do. They pretend they don't know things they shouldn't know. It's called social convention."
"I never claimed to be normal," Edward murmured, and there was something almost fond in his voice now.
She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the way her lips tugged upward, just a little. "Yeah, well, understatement of the century."
He caught it. Of course he did.
"I saw that," he said, his tone low and teasing now.
Bella flushed, looking away. "Saw what?"
"That," he said, the faintest edge of a laugh curling into his voice. "That smile you're trying to hide. You're not nearly as annoyed as you pretend to be."
Her cheeks burned hotter. "Maybe I'm just too polite to yell at the guy who just saved me from getting—" she cut herself off with a grimace.
The temperature in the car seemed to drop ten degrees.
He was watching her again, his expression suddenly serious, all traces of teasing gone.
"Don't," he said quietly.
"Don't what?" she asked, even though she knew.
"Don't downplay it," he said. His jaw tightened again, his fingers white-knuckling the wheel until she could see the tendons standing out in his hands. "Those men... you have no idea what they would've—"
"I know," she said quickly, cutting him off before he could finish that sentence.
They drove in silence for a few beats, the sound of the wipers filling the air again. The police scanner crackled faintly, something about a disturbance call that made Edward's mouth tighten.
Then Bella couldn't help herself. "But you don't have to look so angry about it. Like it's my fault."
He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was part frustration, part something else entirely.
"You scare me," he said finally, so quietly she almost didn't hear it over the tires on wet asphalt.
Bella turned to stare at him, genuinely taken aback.
"You," she said flatly, "the guy who drives like he's in The Fast and the Furious and somehow always knows exactly where I am—I scare you?"
That crooked smile flashed again, rueful this time.
"Terrify me," he corrected. "Absolutely terrify me."
Bella blinked, processing that. "Well," she said after a moment, settling back against the seat with her arms crossed, "good. It's about time."
That startled a soft laugh out of him, low and short and genuinely amused.
"You're impossible," he said, but there was warmth in it now.
"And you're cryptic," she shot back. "So I guess we're even."
"I suppose we are."
They were close to the boardwalk now, the glow of restaurant signs and strings of lights reflecting in the puddles as they sped past. Bella could see the familiar red and green neon of La Bella Italia coming into view, and she felt her chest unclench just slightly.
"So," she said, trying for casual and probably failing, "are you going to tell me how you knew where to find me? Or is that another one of those 'don't worry about it' things?"
Edward was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"Would you believe me if I said I had a feeling?" he asked finally.
"No."
"Then I won't insult your intelligence by saying it."
Bella huffed out a laugh despite herself. "You're infuriating."
"So you've mentioned."
"I'm serious, Edward. You can't just... show up whenever I'm in trouble and expect me not to ask questions."
He pulled into a parking space with the same quiet precision he did everything else and cut the engine. For a moment, they sat in the sudden silence, the only sound the tick of the cooling engine and the distant murmur of voices from the restaurant.
When he finally turned to look at her, his dark gold eyes met hers with something she couldn't quite name. Something that made her breath catch.
"Would you rather I hadn't?" he asked softly.
The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications she wasn't sure she was ready to unpack.
"No," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But that's not the point."
"Isn't it?"
She stared at him, this beautiful, impossible boy who somehow always appeared when she needed him most, and felt something shift in her chest. Something warm and terrifying and entirely too complicated for a Tuesday night in Port Angeles.
"I don't know what you want from me," she said finally.
Edward's smile was soft and sad and entirely too knowing.
"I don't want anything from you," he said. "That's the problem."
Before she could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, he was out of the car and around to her side, opening her door with that old-fashioned courtesy that should have been charming but somehow felt like armor.
"Ready?" he asked, offering her his hand.
Bella looked at it—pale and elegant and probably cold to the touch—and then up at his face. At the careful mask he wore so well, the one that hid whatever was really going on behind those impossible eyes.
She took his hand anyway.
And told herself she'd demand answers later.
Maybe.
Probably not.
But maybe.
---
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