Eva dragged her leg, the pain blinding. It shot up her thigh and settled in her hip. A car sped past, splashing a wave of dirty, gritty water over her legs.

She lost her balance and fell onto the muddy sidewalk. Her hands sank into the cold sludge. Her sketchbook, inside the backpack, dug into her spine.

She tried to stand, but her knee locked up. It was done. Her body had reached its limit.

She curled into a ball on the sidewalk, pulling her knees to her chest, shielding her face from the rain. She closed her eyes and waited. Maybe the cold would take her. Maybe it would be better than the harvest.

Headlights cut through the darkness behind her. Bright, white beams illuminated the rain.

A truck pulled up alongside her. The engine idled with a deep, throaty rumble.

The passenger window rolled down.

"Get in," Hoyt's voice barked out. It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.

Eva looked up, mud smeared on her cheek. She hesitated. Stranger danger screamed in her head. This man was aggressive, paranoid, and scary.

Hoyt leaned over the center console. "I'm not asking. Get in or freeze to death. Your choice."

Eva scrambled up. She grabbed the door handle and pulled. The heavy door swung open.

She climbed into the high cab. The interior was warm, blasting heat. It smelled of leather and old tobacco. It felt like a sanctuary.

She sat on the edge of the seat, trying not to touch anything with her muddy clothes. She was dripping wet, shivering violently.

Hoyt reached into the back seat and grabbed a rough, gray towel. He threw it at her. It landed on her head.

"Dry off," he grunted. "Don't ruin my seats."

Eva pulled the towel down and wiped her face. Her skin was pale, her lips blue. She dried her hair as best she could.

Hoyt watched her for a second, his eyes tracking the tremors that racked her small frame. He reached out and cranked the heater up to the maximum setting. Hot air blasted against her legs.

He put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb.

"The motel is a dump," he said, staring straight ahead at the road. "I'm not leaving a kid there. I'm taking you to the shop."

Eva's eyes widened in alarm. The shop?

Hoyt caught her look in his peripheral vision. "Relax. I'm not gonna hurt you, kid."

Kid.

He said the word with a deliberate emphasis. He was drawing a line. He was the adult; she was the child. He was the protector; she was the charity case.

Eva relaxed slightly. The term made her feel small, but it also made her feel safe. Predators didn't call their victims "kid."

She pulled out her phone and typed: Thank you.

She held it up for him to see.

Hoyt glanced at it, then back at the road. He didn't smile. He didn't say "you're welcome." He just gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"Don't thank me," he muttered. "I'm just doing what Nana would want."

The rain hammered on the roof of the truck, a deafening noise, but inside the cab, Eva was finally dry. She leaned her head back against the seat and let the heat seep into her bones.

The truck pulled into a gravel lot. A neon sign buzzed overhead, the red letters flickering against the rain: Ayers Garage & Ink.

Hoyt killed the engine. The silence in the cab was sudden and heavy.

He turned to Eva. "Stay close to me. Don't touch anything."

They exited the truck. Eva stepped onto the gravel, the stones crunching under her sneakers. The air smelled of oil, rain, and a faint, metallic scent that reminded her of blood.

Hoyt unlocked a metal side door and ushered her inside.

The garage was vast. It was a cavern of concrete and steel. Motorcycles in various stages of repair were scattered around on lifts. Tools lined the walls in organized chaos. Rock music played from a speaker in the corner, low and gritty.

Eva looked around, her eyes wide. Hoyt led her past the bikes to a cleaner office area enclosed in glass. He pointed to a worn leather chair.

"Sit."

Eva sat, clutching her knees to her chest.

Hoyt walked to a mini-fridge in the corner. He grabbed a bottle of water, cracked the seal, and handed it to her.

Eva took it and drank greedily, the cool water soothing her parched throat.

Hoyt leaned against a heavy metal desk, crossing his ankles. As he did, his canvas jacket shifted, and for a fraction of a second, Eva saw it. Tucked into a holster on his belt, pressed against his lower back, was the black grip of a handgun. Her breath hitched. The memory of guards at the estate, the guns they carried, the threat of violence that always hovered over Kingsley's world-it all came rushing back.

Hoyt noticed her gaze drop. He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, the way her body tensed. He instinctively straightened up, his jacket falling back into place, concealing the weapon.

"It's for snakes," he said, his voice flat. "We get water moccasins from the creek. Nasty bastards."

Eva looked at him. She didn't believe him. You didn't need a semi-automatic pistol for snakes. But she nodded anyway.

He watched her drink.

"Mrs. Rose is your... what?" he asked.

Eva lowered the bottle. She typed on her phone: Grandmother.

Hoyt raised an eyebrow. "Nana? Nana never mentioned a granddaughter. She talks about her cat more than she talks about people."

Eva looked down at her lap. Shame colored her cheeks. Of course Nana didn't talk about her. Eva was the secret. The shame. The daughter of the woman who ran away.

Hoyt watched her reaction. He saw the shame. He realized there was a family secret here, a deep, ugly wound.

He decided not to pry. Not yet.

Voices echoed from the bay area outside the office. The heavy roll-up door was opening.

"Hoyt! You in here?" a voice yelled.

Hoyt straightened up. "Stay here," he told Eva. But it was too late. Two men walked into the office.

The door swung open.

Jax walked in first. He was lanky, covered in grease and tattoos, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Behind him was Tubby, a large man with a thick beard, holding a pink donut box.

They stopped dead when they saw Eva curled up in the chair.

Jax whistled low. A slow grin spread across his face. "Well, well. Who's the little bird?"

Eva shrank back into the leather, wishing she could disappear.

Hoyt stepped between them. He moved with a fluid, threatening grace, blocking their view of Eva completely.

"Back off, Jax," Hoyt warned.

Jax laughed, leaning to the side to get a better look. "Boss's Lady? Finally? Did hell freeze over?"

Tubby stepped forward, opening the box. "She looks hungry. Want a glazed, sweetheart?"

Hoyt slapped the donut box away. He didn't hit it hard, just enough to close the lid with a snap.

"She's not my lady," Hoyt said, his voice dropping an octave. "She's a client. And she's a kid."

"We fix bikes, Hoyt, not girls," Jax quipped.

Hoyt turned on him. His eyes were cold, dead things. "Enough."

The single word sucked the air out of the room. The playful atmosphere evaporated instantly. Jax's grin vanished. He knew that tone. That was the tone Hoyt used right before he broke someone's jaw.

"Alright, Boss," Jax muttered, holding up his hands in surrender. "My bad."

Hoyt turned back to Eva. His expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained alert.

"Ignore them," he said. He gestured for her to stand. "We're going across the street. Mrs. Rose should be prepping the stand by now."

Eva stood up. Her legs were trembling, partly from exhaustion, partly from the tension in the room.

Tubby leaned toward Jax and whispered, loud enough for Eva to hear, "Is she mute?"

Hoyt shot Tubby a look that could peel paint. Tubby clamped his mouth shut.

Hoyt placed a hand on the small of Eva's back-not touching, just hovering, a shield of heat. He guided her past the men. Eva could feel the protection radiating from him. He was a wall between her and the world.

They walked out of the shop and into the drizzle. The rain had slowed to a steady mist.

"He's whipped," Jax said as the door closed behind them.

"He's terrified," Skeeter, a mechanic who hadn't spoken a word from the corner, said quietly.

Outside, Hoyt led Eva to the crosswalk. He looked left, then right, checking the empty street with the intensity of a bodyguard clearing a kill zone.

"Walk," he commanded.

They crossed the street toward the small wooden structure on the corner. The sign read Mrs. Rose's Fresh Produce. A light was on inside.