I signed Evelyn Reed.

Not Mrs. Quinn.

Not Silas's mate.

Not Sophie's mother, though I was both those things in ways I chose.

An employee with her own contract, wage, account, and signature.

Maeve shook my hand.

My first official task waited in the repair-shop office.

The room contained three filing cabinets, two computers, a motorcycle carburetor on top of an invoice stack, and a handwritten sign that said RECEIPTS ARE NOT A PERSONAL ATTACK.

Ronan leaned against the doorframe. “The sign has reduced hostility by four percent.”

“Who keeps the books now?”

Six men pointed at one another.

I opened the current month.

Someone had entered brake pads under “community diplomacy.” A hotel charge was labeled “weather avoidance.” Twelve boxes of doughnuts appeared under protective equipment.

“No,” I said.

Ronan put a hand over his heart. “You have been employed for eleven minutes.”

“And already uncovered organized pastry fraud.”

I created three expense categories, assigned receipt deadlines, and locked the prior periods so no one could quietly alter them after review. The men complained until I found two vendors charging the club sales tax on exempt resale parts.

“That refund should be about thirty-eight hundred dollars,” I said.

The room became reverently silent.

Ronan removed the doughnut receipt from his pocket and placed it on my desk.

“Welcome to the family,” he said.

“This is a workplace.”

“At the Reapers, those are unfortunately related.”

Silas remained at the other side of the table.

He did not congratulate himself. He did not ask what portion of my paycheck I would contribute to the household. He did not remind me that his property kept me safe.

“I'm proud of you,” he said.

“You didn't give me the job.”

“I know.”

“That is why I can hear you say that.”

His expression changed, desire and tenderness moving through the bond until breathing became less automatic.

Sophie bit into an egg and made a face.

“It's crunchy.”

The moment broke.

“Shell builds character,” Ronan said from the doorway.

“You are not helping,” Silas told him.

“I was hoping for a doughnut audit.”

That afternoon, Kara called from the hospital. She had asked for me, not the police.

I met her with Briar and an advocate present. Kara wore soft gray clothes and kept the door open. She did not want to discuss the red room. She wanted to understand the papers North County had made her sign.

I spread copies across the table.

“This one assigned your disability payments to the facility,” I explained. “This authorized them to manage your account. The signature is dated two days after your sister reported you missing.”

“I was drugged then.”

“We will flag it for your lawyer. You do not owe them because they wrote a number beside your name.”

The sentence belonged to both of us.

Kara touched the contract folder beside me. “Are you a lawyer?”

“No. A bookkeeper.”

“You found us.”

“The numbers helped.”

“No. You knew they meant something.”

For the first time, I let the distinction stand.

That evening, Silas led me into a storage room at the back of the clubhouse. He had cleared boxes from an upright piano covered in dust.

“You remembered,” I said.

“I was contractually obligated to play two songs.”

“There was no written contract.”

“I honor verbal agreements.”

He sat on the narrow bench. The largest, most dangerous man I knew placed scarred hands over yellowed keys.

The first notes were hesitant.

Then music filled the room.

Not polished. Not perfect. Warm.

I sat beside him. Our shoulders touched. He played an old song his mother had taught him, then a clumsy version of the tune Sophie hummed while coloring.

“That is only one and a half songs,” I said when he stopped.

“Sue me.”

“My lawyer is very busy.”

He turned on the bench.

“How was your first day?”

“I negotiated my salary. Helped Kara challenge stolen benefits. Found three duplicate repair invoices and Ronan's doughnut fraud.”

“Productive.”

“And I discovered the Alpha cannot count songs.”

“I can offer alternative compensation.”

“That sounds ethically questionable.”

“You are not employed by me.”

“Convenient.”

I kissed him between the piano and a stack of old tax files.

His hands settled at my waist, waiting there until I moved closer.

The music faded, but the vibration remained inside the wood, beneath my palm, like proof that something neglected could still hold a song.