Page 4 of Wraith’s Promise

"She's dangerous, Daddy?" Mariah asks, delighted at the prospect, because of course she is.

"She's very dangerous," I confirm. "Which is exactly why she's here to keep you safe."

"Like a superhero."

Quinn looks at my daughter with something soft moving behind her eyes, something that looks almost like ache before she banks it back down. "Something like that," she says.

I watch the exchange and feel the calculations running in the back of my head—the ones that never stop, the ones Judge jokes are the reason I'm worth ten men in a planning meeting. I'm running through logistics.

Where she'll sleep, whether it's better to have her live in the house or nearby, what her schedule needs to look like, how to introduce her presence to the club without causing unnecessary alarm among brothers already strung tight from weeks of conflict. That's the part of my brain that never shuts off, the part that got six women safely reunited with their families two days ago without a single misstep, routes and timing and contingencies stacked in my head like cards I've already memorized the order of.

But there's another part of my brain doing something else entirely, something I haven't let myself indulge in for longer than I care to admit, and that part is simply noticing her. The curve of her mouth when she talks to Mariah. The way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, like she smiles more than her current circumstances probably warrant. The soft weight of her, comfortable in her own skin in a way that feels earned rather than accidental, like she fought for the peace she's found with her body the same way she probably fought for every other piece of peace she's got.

I haven't looked at a woman like this in almost four years. Not since Kate packed two bags and walked out the door, telling me our daughter was too much, that she couldn't do this anymore, that motherhood wasn't what she signed up for. I remember standing in the doorway of this exact house with Mariah on my hip, barely two years old, confused and crying and reaching for a mother who wasn't reaching back, and making a decision in that moment that's shaped every single day since.

Everything I do now is for her. Every plan, every calculation, every fight I don't want to have but show up for anyway. Mariah is the axis my whole life turns on, and anyone who comes into our lives has to understand that from the very beginning, has to be in for all of it or not in at all. There's no version of me that separates the man from the father. They're the same person, and they always will be.

"I should be upfront," I say, watching Quinn. "This isn't a job where you clock out at five and go home to your own life completely separate from us. If you're gonna be around her, you're gonna be around her a lot. She's going to get attached to you, probably faster than either of us wants, because that's who she is. I need to know you're actually prepared for that. Not just prepared to fight if someone comes through that door but prepared to be someone who matters to a five-year-old girl who's already lost one parent to someone who decided she wasn't worth staying for."

"I understand completely," she says, quiet but certain. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean. Not unless you tell me to leave."

And I believe her. Which terrifies me a little, how quickly I believe her, how quickly something in my chest that's been locked down tight for four years creaks open just slightly at the sound of her voice saying my name.

Mariah, oblivious to the weight of the moment, tugs on Quinn's sleeve. "Do you want to see my dragon drawing?"

"I would love to see your dragon drawing," Quinn says, standing immediately, letting my daughter pull her toward the hallway without a second's hesitation.

I sit alone at my kitchen table for a moment, listening to my daughter's voice fade down the hall, listening to Quinn's laugh answer something Mariah's said, warm and unguarded in a way that doesn't match the calculating eyes I caught on the porch.

Two people, apparently, living in the same body. I know something about that myself.

I get up, and I follow the sound of my daughter's laughter, wondering exactly what I've just let into our lives.

Chapter 3 - Quinn

Mariah's bedroom is exactly what I would've imagined if someone had given me five minutes and told me to picture a five-year-old's perfect world made real.

There's a small white bed pushed against one wall with a purple comforter covered in stars and moons, a bookshelf crammed with picture books that look genuinely read rather than decoratively arranged, a toy chest overflowing with stuffed animals and plastic dinosaurs and what appears to be an extensive collection of toy cars. The walls are painted with a soft lavender, and there are drawings taped up everywhere—dragons, horses, houses with smoke curling from chimneys, families holding hands with smiles that take up half their faces.

It's warm. Loved. Safe.

It's everything I would've wanted for a child of my own, if I'd been allowed to have one.

I shove that thought down before it can get its claws in deep and focus instead on the drawing Mariah is currently thrusting into my hands, bouncing on her toes with excitement.

"See? That's the dragon. His name is Firecracker because he breathes fire and he's really loud. And that's me riding him. And that's Daddy on the ground being protected because dragons protect people, they don't hurt them, not good dragons anyway."

I study the picture with the seriousness it deserves. The dragon is purple with elaborate wings that take up most of the page, breathing what I assume is fire but looks more like orange and red confetti. Mariah has drawn herself on its back with dark curls flying behind her and an enormous smile, one arm raised in what might be triumph or greeting. Dean is smaller, standing on the ground below, and she's drawn him with detail: the lean build, the messy hair, even what looks like an attempt at the tattoos on his arms rendered in crayon scribbles.

"This is really good, Mariah," I say, and I mean it. There's energy in the drawing, motion, a story being told. "Firecracker looks very powerful."

"He is. He could beat a hundred bad guys."

"A hundred is a lot of bad guys."

"He's a really good dragon." She says it with the absolute certainty of someone who has never once doubted the capabilities of imaginary creatures.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, and I know without looking that it's Dean. He moves quietly for someone his size, probably years of practice being aware of exactly how much space he takes up and where every piece of himself is at all times. I've moved that way myself. Still do, on the worse days.