Page 7 of Jax & Knox

This feels different.

"Yeah," I say finally. "If she'll have us."

Knox nods. "Both of us. Or neither."

Cole raises his eyebrows. "Damn. You two really are serious."

"We are," I say.

"Well, good luck with that." He raises his beer in a mock toast. "You're gonna need it."

An hour later, Tiny pulls me aside.

"Got something," he says, jerking his head toward the back office.

I follow him, Knox right behind me. Inside, Riot is sitting at his desk, fingers flying over the keyboard. He doesn't look up when we walk in.

"What'd you find?" I ask.

"Justin Williams," Riot says, pulling up a file on the screen. "Cop. Thirty-two years old. Works out of a precinct about two hours south of here. Clean record. No complaints. No red flags."

"Bullshit," Knox growls.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too." Riot clicks through a few more screens. "So I dug deeper. Found a sealed report from about six months ago. Domestic disturbance call. Neighbor reported screaming. When the cops showed up, Ainsley told them she fell down the stairs."

My jaw tightens. "She didn't fall."

"No, she didn't." Riot pulls up a photo. It's a police report, and even though most of it is redacted, I can see enough. Bruises on her arms. A black eye. A split lip.

"Jesus," I mutter.

"It gets worse," Riot says. "The responding officer? One of Justin's buddies. He wrote it up as an accident and closed the case. No follow-up. No investigation."

"Of course not," Knox says, his voice cold. "He's a cop. They protect their own."

"Exactly." Riot leans back in his chair. "This guy is dangerous. He's got a badge, connections, and people willing to look the other way. If he's looking for her, he's not going to stop."

"Then we make sure he doesn't find her," I say.

"Agreed." Riot closes the file. "I'll keep digging. See if I can find anything else."

"Do it," Knox says.

We leave the office, and I feel the weight of it settling over me. This isn't just some asshole ex. This is a cop. A man with resources. A man who knows how to hunt.

And Ainsley is his prey.

"We need to tell her," I say.

"Not tonight," Knox says. "She's been through enough today."

He's right. But it doesn't make me feel any better.

We gather supplies from the clubhouse kitchen. Diapers, formula, bottled water, crackers, fruit. Anything we think she might need. Knox moves with quiet efficiency, checking labels, making sure everything is right. I watch him, and I realize this is what he does. He takes care of people. He just doesn't talk about it.

His fingers linger on a package of baby wipes, turning it over like he's memorizing the brand. Like he's already planning what she'll need tomorrow, next week, next month.

"You think she'll let us in?" I ask.