Page 83 of Wraith

“My solution is to do the right thing. To help put away people who murdered a federal informant and tortured him first. To use what I witnessed to make sure they can’t hurt anyone else the way they hurt me.”

“And what about what it does to you? What about the target it puts on your back? What about the years of trials and testimony and having your face plastered everywhere so that anyone loyal to the Sons knows exactly who to come after?”

“Evan said the Devils would protect us.”

“Evan doesn’t understand what he’s asking you to do. He doesn’t understand what it means to be a witness. To live with that hanging over you. To always be looking over your shoulder, wondering if today is the day someone ties up loose ends.”

“I’m already looking over my shoulder.”

“Right now it’s just the Sons. But if you testify, it becomes every associate, every ally, every person who ever did business with them. It becomes a target that never comes off.” He’s leaning forward now, his voice intense. “Is that really what you want?”

My throat is tight. “I want to go on dates and see movies and have a normal fucking life. And right now, the only way to get that is to help take down the Sons so they can’t hunt us anymore.”

“No.” The word comes out flat. Hard. “Absolutely not.”

It’s the tone that does it. The same tone he used to use when he’d decided for both of us and considered the discussion over. The tone that says, ‘I know better and you’ll do what I tell you.’

Something in my chest goes cold.

“That’s not your decision to make.”

He opens his mouth to respond, and I see the anger there, coiled and ready to strike. The old Dylan. The one who controlled every aspect of my life and called it protection.

Then something shifts.

I watch it happen. Watch him catch himself. Watch the anger in his eyes bank like a fire that’s been covered but not extinguished; his jaw unclenches; his shoulders drop slightly. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“You’re right. It’s not my decision. I’m sorry.”

I blink, surprised.

“But June, please.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “This isn’t something we should rush into. It’s complicated. There are angles we need to consider, risks we need to assess. Just... give me some time to think about it. To figure out the best way forward. We’ll figure it out together, okay? I promise.”

Together.

The word wraps around me like a blanket.

He’s not shutting me down. Not telling me no. Not deciding for me. He’s asking for time to think. To consider. To figure things out with me instead of for me.

That’s different.

That’s the New Dylan. The one who bought me roses and submitted to me in bed and fought two armed men to protect me.

But there’s something in his tone; something underneath the softness that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

But New June wants to believe him.

New June wants to trust that this time it’s different. That he’s different. That we’re different together.

New June has hope.

“Okay,” I say. “We’ll think about it together.”

The tension in his shoulders releases. “Thank you.”

We finish our meal in relative silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. He tells me about the ribs, how they’re the best he’s had in years. I tell him about the sea bass, about how I’ve never had fish cooked this perfectly. We share bites of each other’s food. We order dessert — chocolate lava cake that arrives warm with vanilla ice cream melting into the center.

It’s perfect.