Page 73 of Priest

“My loyalty to your father bought you protection,” I finish. “It did not buy you immunity. It sure as hell doesn’t buy you a future if you keep crossing lines.”

She swallows. Her nod is barely perceptible.

I hold her gaze another second, making sure she understands exactly how far that understanding goes. “Good. Because this is the only warning you’re getting.”

I step aside, letting her pass.

She walks toward her room stiffly, back straight and head high, but her hands are shaking when she reaches for the door. I watch until it closes.

Then I turn and head the other way, chest tight, resolve settling heavy and sure.

Cain may have saved me once, but I won’t let his daughter burn down what I’m trying to build. Not for him. Not for anyone.

24

Blue

A few days after Priest’s unwanted break-in and even more unwanted but surprisingly delicious cooking expedition, the apartment has settled again.

Quiet in the way a room gets after a storm passes through and leaves things rearranged. The couch doesn’t feel hostile anymore. The kitchen doesn’t feel haunted by his presence. I’ve slept through the night twice now without waking up convinced I hear someone moving where they shouldn’t be, and that counts as progress.

It’s my first full day off in weeks. No pager dragging me back to work. No scrubs pulling at my skin. No hospital antiseptic clinging to me long after I’ve washed it away. Just sunlight through the windows, my swollen feet tucked under me, and the low hum of normal life trying very hard to pretend it belongs here.

Lila is on my couch, knees pulled up and a mug warming her hands. Evan is perched in the armchair, long legs folded awkwardly beneath him, watching me with an intensity that tells me he’s been holding something in for at least five minutes, which in Evan time is roughly one calendar year.

I know what’s coming.

“I’ve been sitting on this,” he finally says, voice too careful to be casual, “because you needed time. But now that you’ve had time…”

“Evan,” I warn, “you know I don’t…”

“Okay.” He lifts both hands immediately, palms out, expression tragically innocent. “Okay. I am not storming the castle. I am not scaling the walls in a rhinestone cape. I’m just saying you need to talk this out, and we are here. Listening. Hydrated. Emotionally available.”

Lila hides a smile behind her mug, then looks at me with that soft, steady patience of hers. “Only as much as you want to say.”

That’s Lila. She never pushes with both hands. She just opens the door and lets you decide if you’re ready to walk through it.

I lower myself into the chair across from them, hands moving instinctively to my stomach. Seven months. Heavy in a way that’s no longer abstract. Everything in my life has weight now.

“He broke into my apartment,” I say, and my voice comes out sharp enough to slice bread. “Not emotionally. Not metaphorically. Literally. Picked the lock and everything.Cooked me dinner and ran me a bath.”

Evan’s eyebrows climb. “I’m sorry, picked the lock and everything?”

“Yes,” I snap. “Like some deranged leather-clad homemaker with boundary issues.”

His mouth twitches.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say many things,” he admits. “Some of them, very unsupportive of crime. Some of them, unfortunately, intrigued by the cooking.”

I glare at him, mostly because a small, traitorous part of me had been intrigued too. By the food. By the bath. By the fact that he’d thought about what I might need after a long shift, even if he’d gone about it like a caveman who’d misplaced the entire concept of doors.

“I know he thought he was helping,” I continue, forcing my voice steady. “I know he told himself it was romantic. But that doesn’t make it okay. I didn’t give him permission to decide when I was ready to see him.”