Chapter 6 Kat

I didn’t expect to feel safe here.

Not after everything. Not after the way silence used to mean danger, and kindness came with strings. But Jasper’s quiet is different. It hums low, steady. Like the rumble of bikes in the distance or the soft laughter of women who’ve seen too much and still choose softness.

Wolf’s mom—everyone calls her Mama Red—took one look at me and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like lavender and leather. I didn’t flinch. That surprised me more than anything.

She doesn’t ask questions. None of them do. The ol’ ladies just let me sit with them, listen to their stories, pass me coffee without comment when my hands shake. They talk about grandbabies and garden soil and the best way to get blood out of denim. I laugh sometimes. Real laughs. Not the kind I used to fake to keep people comfortable.

The guys don’t crowd me. They nod, offer food, like it’s nothing. I know they’re watching—especially Wolf. He’s always close. Not hovering. Just… there. Like a shadow that doesn’t scare me.

He doesn’t talk much. But when he does, it’s low and careful, like he’s afraid his voice might break something in me. It won’t. I’m not glass. I’ve been fire and ash and steel. But I’m tired of burning.

Yesterday, I caught him watching me from across the yard while I helped Mama Red hang laundry. He didn’t look away when I met his eyes. Just nodded once, like he was saying I see you. I got you. I didn’t nod back. But I didn’t look away either.

That’s something.

I sleep better here. Not great. But better. The nightmares still come, but they don’t choke me the way they used to. I wake up and hear bikes rolling in, voices laughing, someone playing old country music in the kitchen. It’s not home. Not yet. But it’s not hell either.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

The scream ripped out of me before I was fully awake.

I was back there. In the dark. In the cold. Hands grabbing. Voices lying. My body remembered before my mind did, and I clawed at the sheets like they were chains.

I couldn’t breathe.

The room spun, shadows stretching long across the walls. I kicked at them, heart slamming against my ribs, throat raw from crying out. I didn’t know where I was. Who I was. Just that I had to get out.

Then the door opened.

I flinched hard, scrambled back against the headboard, fists raised. The door had burst open and for a split second, I didn’t recognize him—just saw the shape of a man, tall and broad, cutting through the dark. My heart kicked hard against my ribs.

Then his eyes caught mine—steady, not startled. Familiar.

Wolf.

I knew him. I did. But fear doesn’t always wait for memory to catch up.

“I’m here,” he said, voice low. Rough. Like gravel softened by rain.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My body was still locked in fight mode, but my hands had stopped shaking.

He reached out, slow, and I let him. Let him pull me into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know him. But I didn’t push him away.

He held me like he’d done it before. Like he knew exactly how tight to wrap his arms so I wouldn’t feel trapped. Just held.

Then he started humming.

It wasn’t a song I recognized. Something old, maybe. Something his mother used to sing. It was low and warm and wrapped around me like a blanket. I felt it in my bones before I understood it in my head.

I cried. Quietly. Into his shirt. And he didn’t say a word. Just kept humming, rocking me gently like I was something worth soothing.

I don’t remember falling asleep again. Just the sound of his voice, the weight of his arms, and the first time in a long time I didn’t wake up alone.

I woke up tangled in warmth that wasn’t mine.

Wolf’s arm was draped over my waist, heavy and steady, like it had been there all night. His chest rose and fell behind me, slow and even. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just stared at the soft light creeping through the curtains and tried to make sense of the ache in my chest.

I should’ve pulled away.

Should’ve panicked. Should’ve shoved him off and built the wall back up before it cracked any further. But I didn’t. I stayed still, listening to the quiet hum of his breath and the way it matched the rhythm of the song he’d hummed to me in the dark.

I didn’t remember the lyrics. Just the feeling.

Safe. Held. Seen.

And that scared me more than the nightmare.

Because I know better. I know what happens when you let someone in too fast. When you mistake comfort for permanence. When you start to believe you deserve softness before you’ve earned it.

Wolf didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t push. But something in me wanted to turn toward him. To press closer. To ask him to hum again.

I didn’t.

I slipped out from under his arm, careful not to wake him. My feet hit the floor like a promise: I’m not ready.

I’m too broken. Too guarded. Too tangled in the past to start anything with a man like him.

But I looked back once before leaving the room.

And that—that—was the part I didn’t know how to explain.