“Drink,” I say. “You’re safe. For now.”
She takes a shaky sip.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She swallows. “Millie.”
Something in me eases at the sound of it.
She explains in halting sentences how she’s newly homeless, how she didn’t know where else to go, how sorry she is for sneaking into my building. Each word tightens the knot in my chest. Because I know exactly what happens to girls like Millie when they’re out on the streets at night. I know the men who would’ve noticed her. The ones who’d smile first and then assault her without remorse.
Back when I ran with the Serpents, we used to see girls like her drift through the neighborhoods. Lost. Easy prey. I’d walked away from that life, burned every bridge behind me—but the memories don’t fade.
My stomach twists hard.
“You’re lucky,” I say quietly. “Very lucky.”
She looks at me, confused.
“You could have ended up in the wrong place,” I finish.
Millie hesitates, then asks softly, “Is Wilder House…like a halfway house?”
I shake my head. “Not officially. It’s not licensed. It’s sort of a place for people who need a fresh start.”
Her eyes shine at that. “That’s what I need. I just—I don’t have any money. I can’t pay rent.”
“I don’t have any units available,” I say automatically.
It’s a lie. And I know it the second it leaves my mouth. But something in me is already shifting, already making space.
I clear my throat. “But I might have another option.”
Her breath catches.
“I’ve got a guest room,” I continue, stunned by myself. I’ve never done this before. Never even considered it. “You could stay there. Temporarily.”
Her eyes widen. “I can’t—I can’t pay. I don’t even have a job yet. But I will. I promise. Just give me a couple of weeks.”
I nod. “That’s fine.”
It’s not about the money. Never was. But she needs to believe it is—needs to feel like she’s earning this, not begging for it. Because I already know one thing for sure. I’m not letting her walk back out into the night.
I lead her up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. Old habit. Gives me time to think—time I don’t actually want.
I keep my eyes forward and still catch it—the careful way she takes each step, like she’s bracing for the floor to give out. Like she’s learned not to trust solid ground. It does something to me I don’t have a name for.
The top floor is quiet, like always. My apartment sits at the end of the hall, door scarred but solid. Home. I unlock it and step aside so she can enter first.
She moves slowly, eyes taking everything in like she expects it to vanish if she looks too hard. The place is simple. Clean. Lived in, but sparse. Nothing fancy. Just how I like it.
“This way,” I say, nodding toward the back.
The guest room door opens to a small, plain space. White walls. A narrow window. A twin bed with neatly tucked sheets. That’s it. I don’t have much use for guests. The few who’ve slept in this room were men running from ghosts…old associates, washed-up friends, people who stayed a night or two before disappearing again.
Millie doesn’t comment on the size of the bed. She just exhales, like she’s finally letting herself believe this is real.
“You can lock the door if you want,” I tell her. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll leave you some towels.”
