Brooke lingers half a second longer, her gaze moving from Olivia to me. “She’ll need a woman when she wakes,” Brooke says quietly.
I look at her.
She doesn’t back down, but she doesn’t step in either. “Not instead of you. Alongside you.” Those words sit wrong. Not because they’re false. Because they’re right.
I look back at Olivia. “Later,” I say.
Brooke accepts that and leaves.
Logan shuts the infirmary door halfway, not fully. Smart. Closed doors make rooms smaller. Smaller rooms make men like me worse. He stands near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyes on me. “Explain.”
“I did.”
“You gave me pieces.”
“That’s what I have.”
“Bullshit.” His voice sharpens. “You saw a van, called me, then ten minutes later you’ve got four men down and an unconscious woman in your arms. I want every fucking second between.”
I don’t move from Olivia’s side. “Van was outside Ambrosia. Engine running. No lights. Door cracked. I circled.”
“I told you to stay put.”
“You told me not to freelance.”
“And?”
“I called.”
Logan stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether to hit me or keep asking questions.
Blaze would call that emotional growth.
I’d call it inconvenient timing.
“You circled,” Logan says.
“Yeah.”
“Then what?”
“Van wasn’t waiting on Ambrosia.”
“How do you know?”
“Position. Angle. Door cracked toward the sidewalk. Passenger tracking movement past the club, not the club.”
“Who were they waiting for?”
My eyes cut to Olivia.
Logan follows the look. Silence. His mouth tightens again. “Her.”
“Yes.”
“And you know that because?”
“They moved when she came into range.”
