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laundry—anything to keep my hands busy. I assume the clothes are clean. Dark t-shirts, jeans, bandanas and soft flannels. The earthy scent of him lingers in the laundry just beneath the mountain spring blast of detergent freshness. I only press my face into it twice. Okay, three times.
    I only wonder who washes it for him once.
    I pull the t-shirt away from my face and fold it again.
    There’s a gentle rap on the door and then it creaks open. A young guy with barely more than a milk mustache on his upper lip pokes his head inside Noah’s room. If we were back at the diner I might joke with him about his baby face, ask him if he wanted crayons while he waited for his eggs and bacon. Instead he’s here to take me on a gallows walk. “They’re ready for you now.”
    I want to ask him what’s happened so far or if he’s heard any news about Noah’s sister. I want so many things but instead I drop the t-shirt I’ve been folding and smooth my skirt.
    Deep breath, Star. Deep breath .
    Noah promised me before he left for this meeting that even if they decided the worst, I’d still be okay because he and Stone had cleared out the club’s cancer. That’s what he’d called Dev and his men. A cancer.
    I just hope the club stays in remission. I didn’t ask what the worst might be.
    The kid escorting me is a prospect. I know this because it’s emblazoned on his back and because Noah explained a little bit about how the club works. His version of pillow talk. Now I know there are prospects, guys who want to be members and are on a kind of indefinite trial run until they prove themselves. Then they become full members. And I know there are rules and by-laws.
    Noah broke them when he killed Dev without a vote.
    I swallow hard as we pass the room where it all happened. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it was only a few days.
    The rumble of voices drifts into the hallway from behind another door, and the prospect stops in front of it. He knocks more forcefully than he did for me, but he looks grimmer. Oh. He’s hiding his nerves behind a rough expression. A little boy, determined not to be afraid of the dark.
    I want to give him a snack and a juice box and tell him that it’s almost never the dark you need to be afraid of; the things that come for you in the daylight are so much worse.
    He opens the door, wraps his fingers around my upper arm and pulls me inside. Sunlight filters through the blinds in sharp slants, highlighting dust motes and smoke curls, casting shadows on the grizzled faces gathered around the long conference table. There are a dozen of them at least.
    Hard, angry faces. With heavy brows and unruly beards. My heart hammers into my breastbone like it might escape this inquisition, and I search for Noah in the lineup of intimidation.
    Noah sits in the corner, back to the wall, with a full view of the whole room. His eyes rake over my face and body, dark and possessive, communicating more than I can follow in a few seconds. Reassurance, sorrow, desire. Anger at the sight of the prospect handling me. Hope.
    Stone sits beside him, equally tense.
    I don’t recognize anyone else at the table except for the big man who’d gotten his face slapped the night I arrived. When he opens his mouth to speak first, relief washes over me. At least I’ve witnessed his kindness.
    “Honey, I’m Zig. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to tell us the truth. You do that and nothing bad happens. Got it?”
    I nod.
    “Did Noah promise you protection when he brought you here?”
    Protection. What does that even mean ? My knees start to buckle, and I’m grateful for the prospect’s grip. He was going to make me fuck off Harry’s debt, that didn’t seem very protective. Except every other thing about him was hyper-protective. I was his, he’d reminded me of that over and over. I guess protection meant different things to different people. I’d let them decide. “He said I’d be working off my