Page 7 of Wraith’s Promise

He pushes off the doorframe, runs a hand through his already messy hair. "I'll let you get settled. Come find me if you need anything. I'll probably be in the kitchen pretending I know how to cook dinner."

He disappears down the hallway, and I stand alone in my new room, looking at the bed I'll sleep in, the window I'll watch for threats, the door I'll guard with my life if it comes to that.

I've fought wars. I've survived things that should've killed me. I've learned to live with the nightmares; the scars and the permanent absence of a future I thought I'd have.

Protecting one five-year-old girl in a house with her father down the hall should be simple.

So why does it feel like I just signed up for something infinitely more complicated than any mission I've ever done before?

Chapter 4 - Wraith

I make it approximately four steps down the hallway before I have to stop and lean against the wall for a second, hand pressed flat against the paint, breathing through something I don't have a name for.

This is fine. This is good, actually. This is exactly what I needed. Someone competent, someone Ranger trusts with his life, someone who can keep Mariah safe while I handle the war that's currently trying to burn down everything I've built. Quinn Nash is clearly qualified, clearly capable, clearly good with my daughter, and I should be relieved.

I am relieved.

I'm also completely fucked, and it took me less than an hour to figure that out.

I push off the wall and head downstairs because standing in my hallway having feelings about my daughter's new babysitter is not on today's agenda, or any day's agenda, and I've gotten very good at ignoring things that don't serve a practical purpose.

Feelings about women fall firmly into that category. Have for four years now. Will continue to indefinitely because that's the deal I made with myself when Kate walked out—everything for Mariah, nothing for me that doesn't directly benefit her.

Quinn staying here benefits her. Quinn being good at her job benefits her. Quinn reading to her in that soft voice doing all the character parts benefits her.

Quinn looking at my daughter like she's something precious while simultaneously looking like she could put a bullet through the skull of anyone who tried to hurt her, that benefits her too, and that's the only reason I'm allowing myself to notice it.

The kitchen is exactly how I left it ten minutes ago. Clean counters, dishes done, fridge stocked with food that'll hopefully turn into something edible if I try hard enough. I'm not a great cook. I'm a functional cook. Mariah hasn't starved yet, so I'm calling that a win. I pull open the fridge and stare at its contents, trying to remember what I planned for dinner before Quinn Nash showed up on my porch in pigtails and rearranged my entire equilibrium.

Chicken. I bought chicken. And vegetables that looked good at the store but that I now have no idea what to do with. There's pasta in the cupboard. I can do pasta. Everyone can do pasta. It's basically impossible to fuck up pasta unless you're actively trying.

I'm pulling out ingredients when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out one-handed and glance at the screen.

Phoenix: Church tonight. 8 PM. Mandatory.

I close my eyes briefly. Of course. We're three days past the warehouse raid and still no retaliation from the Vipers, which means everyone's strung tight waiting for the other shoe to drop. Phoenix is probably calling church to go over defensive positions, threat assessments, contingency plans.

All things I should be there for because that's my job. I'm the planner, the one who sees three moves ahead, the one who makes sure we don't walk into traps we should've seen coming.

All things that require me to leave my house at night while my daughter sleeps, which is exactly what I hired Quinn for, and which should feel fine but instead feels like I'm testing something too soon, like I'm pushing weight onto a structure before the concrete's fully set.

I text back: I'll be there.

Then I add: New babysitter started today. Need to brief her before I leave.

Phoenix responds immediately: Ranger's sister?

I reply: Yeah.

He texts back: Good. He trusts her. That's enough for me.

I pocket the phone and go back to staring at the chicken, except now I'm also calculating timing: if church is at eight, I should leave by seven-thirty to make it to the clubhouse with a few minutes to spare, which means dinner needs to be done by six-thirty at the latest, which means I need to start cooking in the next hour, which means I should probably go brief Quinn now so she knows what to expect tonight.

This is what my brain does. Constantly. Every decision branches into twelve other decisions, every timeline splits into contingencies and backup plans and what-ifs. Judge jokes that I think in flowcharts. He's not wrong. It's exhausting and it's also the only thing that's kept me and Mariah alive this long, so I'm not about to apologize for it.

I head back upstairs, knock quietly on Quinn's door.

"Come in," she calls.