JEREMIAH STEPPED into the garage, shutting the heavy metal door behind him. The place still smelled faintly of smoke from the attack—burned rubber, scorched oil, and the metallic tang of blood that hadn’t fully faded yet. Snow collected in thin streaks along the concrete, blown in from the cracks where the wind reached through. Christmas lights flickered weakly from the small window above the workbench, the only sign the holidays were near.
He scanned the shadows automatically, muscles tense, hand drifting toward the knife holstered under his jacket. The attack had left the compound on edge, and he wasn’t letting anything slip past him again.
He froze when he saw her.
Lily stood near the far corner of the garage, arms wrapped around herself, staring at a burnt-out motorcycle frame like
