His Wet Claim

Chapter 2.

Chapter 2

Morning light came gray and thin through the cabin windows. I woke on the couch with a crick in my neck and the smell of coffee pulling me out of sleep. For a second I forgot where I was. Then the bandage on my arm itched, and it all rushed back.

I sat up slowly. My jacket and shirt from last night were gone—replaced by one of Marcus’s old Army T-shirts folded on the coffee table. It was soft, faded black, too big. I slipped it over my head anyway. It smelled like him. Cedar and clean cotton. I hated how much I liked it.

Footsteps came from the kitchen. Marcus appeared in the doorway holding two mugs. He looked different in daylight. Less like a shadow, more like a man who hadn’t slept much either. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight.

“Coffee,” he said, holding one out.

I took it. “Thanks.”

He sat in the armchair across from me. Not too close. Not too far. The space between us felt careful.

We drank in silence for a minute. Rain still tapped the roof, softer now.

“You sleep?” he asked.

“Not really.”

He nodded like he’d expected that. “You want to tell me what happened?”

I stared into my mug. Steam curled up. “I published the story two weeks ago. Everything I had on Kane—shell companies, payoffs, the senator who took the money before the vote. It hit hard. Next day my tires were slashed. Then the brake lines. Then last night someone tried to run me into a guardrail on I-5. I got lucky. Swerved into an exit ramp.”

Marcus didn’t interrupt. Just listened. His face stayed calm, but his knuckles went white around the mug.

“I drove straight here,” I finished. “Didn’t stop except for gas. I didn’t know where else to go.”

He set his coffee down. Leaned forward. Elbows on knees. “You should’ve called me sooner.”

“I didn’t want to need you.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet. “But you do.”

The words hung there again. Heavy. True.

I looked at him. Really looked. The scar on his forearm was pink and fresh. Newer than the ones on his ribs I’d seen years ago at the lake when he’d taken his shirt off to swim. I remembered staring too long that day. He’d caught me. Smirked. I’d flipped him off and walked away.

Now there was no smirk.

“You still hate me?” I asked.

He tilted his head. “You still think I’m an arrogant asshole?”

“Sometimes.”

A small huff of laughter escaped him. “Fair.”

I took another sip. The coffee was strong. Black. Just how I liked it. He remembered.

“I’m not staying long,” I said. “Just until I figure out my next move.”

“No.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’re not leaving until I say it’s safe.”

I set the mug down hard. “I’m not your prisoner, Marcus.”

“You’re my responsibility.” He leaned closer. “Daniel would kill me if I let anything happen to you. And I’d let him. Because I’d deserve it.”

Something twisted in my chest. Not anger. Something softer. Dangerous.

“I can take care of myself,” I said, but it sounded weaker than I meant.

“I know you can.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “But you don’t have to. Not right now.”

I wanted to argue. I always argued with him. It was easy. Safe. But I was tired. Bone-deep tired. And sitting here in his too-big shirt, drinking his coffee, listening to rain on his roof… it felt like the first time in weeks I could breathe.

“Okay,” I whispered. “For now.”

He gave one sharp nod. “Good.”

He stood up, took both mugs to the sink. When he came back he had a burner phone in his hand.

“New number. Only calls to me or Daniel. No socials. No email. Nothing that can be traced.”

I took the phone. It felt small. Final.

He crouched in front of me again. Same spot he’d been last night when he patched my arm. Close enough I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“I’m going to teach you a few things while you’re here,” he said. “How to spot a tail. How to break a hold. How to disappear if you have to.”

I swallowed. “You think it’ll come to that?”

“I think it’s better if you know how to fight back.” His voice dropped. “And if anyone gets through me, you finish it.”

The words should’ve scared me. They didn’t. They steadied me.

I reached out without thinking. My fingers brushed the scar on his forearm. He froze.

“How’d you get this one?” I asked softly.

“Last year. Bad job in Colombia. Guy with a knife got lucky.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

My thumb traced the raised line. He didn’t pull away.

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad I came here.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Something shifted behind his eyes—something warm and unguarded.

“Me too,” he said.

Then he stood up fast, like he needed distance. “Get dressed. We start training after breakfast.”

I watched him walk to the kitchen. Broad back. Steady steps.

I stayed on the couch a minute longer, fingers still tingling where they’d touched him.

Outside the rain kept falling. Inside the cabin felt smaller. Warmer.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel completely alone.