The safe house was quiet in a way that felt unnatural. Not peaceful — charged, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Rhett walked ahead of me down the hallway, his heavy boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to make the fear in my chest loosen.
He stopped at a door near the end of the hall and pushed it open.
“This is yours,” he said, voice low and steady.
Warm light spilled out. The room was simple but comforting — soft blankets, clean sheets, a dresser, a lamp, and a window overlooking the storm‑soaked trees. It was more than I’d had in weeks. More than I’d expected from men who looked like they lived on the edge of violence.
Rhett leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “If you need
