Page 12 of Goose's Wren

And Wren might not be wearing a patch, but she grew up around us.She’s club-adjacent whether she likes it or not.And someone touched her.Marked her.

That makes it our business.

Timber gives me a long look.“You want me to pull Snake in on this?Have him do a little digging?”

I hesitate.Part of me wants to charge off half-cocked, track down every person she’s been around since coming back into town.

But I also know Wren.She’s proud and guarded.Hurting in ways I probably can’t begin to guess.

If I go over her head without thinking it through, she’ll shut down.She might run.And next time I see her, the bruise might be worse.Or I might not see her at all.

“I’ll handle it for now,” I say finally.

Timber studies me for a second longer, then nods.“Alright.But if you change your mind, say the word.No one lays hands on one of ours.Not ever.”

He turns and walks back toward the office, but the fire he just lit in my chest stays burning.

Wren

The door barely shuts behind me when I feel fingers clamp down hard around my arm.Shit.

I didn’t even see his car outside.He must’ve parked it behind the trailer or down the road.I thought he was gone.That was my first mistake.

My second was thinking I could breathe for even half a second.

Tim jerks me forward, his grip bruising.His face is flushed, eyes sharp with suspicion and a twitch at the corner of his mouth that tells me exactly how thin the thread he’s hanging from is.

“Where the hell you been?”he demands, voice low and tight like he’s trying not to yell.Like the effort it takes not to explode is somehow a favor to me.

I steady my breath.Don’t show fear.Don’t challenge him.Keep it even.

“I was in town,” I say.“Putting in applications.We need the money.”

His eyes narrow.“You do that before or after you went to that coffee shop?”

My heart jumps, but I force myself to stay still.He’s fishing.That means he doesn’t know anything.Just guessing.

“Before,” I lie smoothly.“I just stopped in for a coffee on my way out.”

He lets go of my arm slowly, but not before he makes sure I feel the point of his thumb dig in right where the bruise on my bicep from last week is still healing.

I step back out of reach and keep my face blank.

He grunts, satisfied.“Well, good.Maybe you’ll actually bring something useful to the table for once.”

I don’t answer.There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t make it worse.

He turns, grabs the dingy hoodie from the back of the tattered couch, and tosses it over one shoulder.“Get changed.We’re going out.”

I blink.“What?”

“I got a meeting at the Blackcat.Some guy about a job.”

“What kind of job?”

He snorts.“Not the kind you fill out W-2s for, babe.Don’t worry about it.Just look decent, yeah?”

I go cold.Because I know exactly what that means.

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