Page 22 of Judge's Justice

And neither can she.

"Grace, baby." I sign with shaking hands. "Maybe you should go paint. Or play with your toys. You don't need to see this."

"I'm not leaving." Her hands are firm. Stubborn. "Judge is out there because of us. I'm not hiding."

"Grace—"

"Mama, no." She looks up at me with those big brown eyes, and there's something in them I've never seen before. Something fierce. "He's protecting us. The least we can do is watch. So, he knows we see him. So, he knows we care."

My daughter is five years old.

Five, and she just said something that makes my chest ache with pride and terror in equal measure.

"Okay," I whisper. Sign it too. "Okay. We'll watch together."

Grace nods and turns back to the window. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and we both stare out at the street where Judge stands next to his motorcycle like he's waiting for the end of the world.

He looks so calm. So still. Like this is just another Tuesday morning instead of a potential ambush. His hands hang loose at his sides, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes scan the street constantly. The way he's positioned himself between the house and the direction those Vipers are coming from.

He's a wall. A human wall made of muscle, scars and absolute certainty.

And I barely know him.

Twelve hours. That's all it's been. Twelve hours since I got off that bus and met a Viper and watched this man dismantle him like it was nothing. Twelve hours since he gave me his number and followed me home and stayed outside all night in the cold.

Twelve hours, and I'm watching him prepare to fight for us like we're something worth dying for.

It doesn't make sense.

Nothing about this makes sense.

I came here for quiet. For safety. For a chance to breathe and figure out what my life looks like now that I've finally admitted the truth, that my ex is never going to change, that staying would have slowly killed something essential in me, that Grace deserves better than watching her mother shrink, apologize and accept crumbs of affection.

And instead, I found war.

I found danger.

I found Judge.

Judge, who knows sign language. Who spent twenty years in the military and carries scars from an explosion. Who looked atmy daughter and saw a person worth listening to instead of an inconvenience.

Who sat at my kitchen table this morning and ate eggs and answered Grace's questions about motorcycles and clutches with patience, respect and something that looked almost like affection.

I shouldn't be thinking about him like this.

He's older. He's the vice president of a motorcycle club at war. I'm a single mom running from a bad relationship with nothing but two suitcases and thirty dollars in cash.

We have nothing in common except terrible timing and the fact that he keeps saving my life.

But God help me, I can't stop watching him.

I can't stop thinking about his hands, scarred but surprisingly gentle when he lifted Grace onto his motorcycle. Can't stop remembering his voice when he told me I did the right thing leaving. When he promised to protect us. When he looked at me like my safety actually mattered.

My ex never looked at me like that.

My ex looked at me like I was convenient. Like I was there to make his life easier, to take care of Grace so he didn't have to, to not ask too many questions about where he was or who he was with.

My ex made me feel small.