Page 29 of Wild Thorns

"What's his name?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to know who we're dealing with." He must have seen something in my face, because he added, more gently: "I'm not going to do anything stupid. But we need to know. The pack—" He stopped, corrected himself. "The family needs to know who to watch for."

There it was again. Pack. He'd almost said it, caught himself, and substituted something else.

I filed it away with everything else I was collecting.

"Marcus," I said. "Marcus Webb."

Jasper repeated the name quietly, his lips barely moving, like he was filing it somewhere important. His eyes had gone distant for a moment, focused on something I couldn't see.

Then he looked at me, really looked, and the fierceness in his expression softened into something that made my throat tight.

"Serena. Can I tell you something?"

"Okay."

"You're not broken." He said it with absolute certainty, like he was stating a fact about gravity or the color of the sky. "Whatever he did to you, whatever he made you believe about yourself, you're not broken. You're not weak. You're not stupid for not seeing it sooner, and you're not a coward for running."

I felt my eyes sting. "You don't know—"

"I know enough." He shifted, turning to face me more fully. "I know you moved across the country by yourself. I know you built a new life in a town where you didn't know anyone. I know you've been dealing with this alone for god knows how long, and you're still here. Still standing. Still making terrible jokes about my ego." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "That's not weakness. That's survival."

A tear slid down my cheek. I wiped it away quickly, embarrassed.

"Hey." His voice was soft. "You don't have to hide that from me."

"I don't cry in front of people."

"Maybe you should. It's very humanizing." There was no mockery, only sincerity. "Serena. Look at me."

I looked.

"You're not alone anymore." He met my eyes, and in his gaze was something fierce, protective, and entirely sincere. His eyes blazed, jaw tightening. "Whatever this is, you don't have to face it by yourself."

"You barely know me."

"I know enough," he said again. "And I'd like to know more. But that's not why I'm saying this." He reached out, slowly, giving me time to pull away, and rested his hand over mine on the porch step.

His palm was warm. Warmer than it should have been, almost feverish. Callused, strong and impossibly gentle.

"I'm saying this because it's true. You have people here now. Me, my brothers, Mom. We look out for our own."

"I'm not—"

"You're ours." He said it simply, without hesitation. The word should have scared me. After Marcus, after everything, ours should have sent me running. But the way Jasper said it didn't feel like ownership. It felt like shelter. "Whether you like it or not. That's just how it works around here."

I didn't know what to say. The possessiveness was there, undeniable, but it was wrapped in something else. Protection. Care. A fierceness that was directed outward, at the thing that threatened me, not inward at me.

"I don't want to bring my problems to your door," I said finally.

"Too late." He squeezed my hand once, then let go, giving me back my space. "Your problems are officially at our door. And we have a lot of doors. Very sturdy ones." A hint of the old Jasper surfaced, the warmth beneath the steel. "Also, between you and me? My brothers and I are very good at handling problems. It's kind of our specialty."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you should let us help." He stood, brushing off his jeans. His whole body was still tense, that coiled energy still vibrating beneath his skin, but he was holding it back now. Containing it. "And it means I need to go have a conversation with Callum and Eli. They should know about this."