Orla woke to the smell of something burning.
It took her a second to realize it wasn’t fire—it was coffee. Bitter, over-brewed, and wafting from the small kitchen where Stanley stood shirtless, his jeans low on his hips, a mug in one hand and a phone pressed to his ear.
She sat up slowly, the blanket slipping from her chest. His voice was quiet but sharp, like a blade being honed.
“No,” he said. “That wasn’t the deal. You don’t touch her, you don’t follow her, you don’t even breathe in her direction unless I say so… Don’t test me, Dax. You know what I’m capable of.”
Her spine stiffened.
Stanley turned just enough to see her, his gaze softening—but not his voice. “I’ll handle it. Don’t call again.”
He ended the call, tossed the phone on the counter, and took a sip from the mug like he
