“Oh fuck.” He gasps, poking his tongue out and rubbing it, fucking rubbing it, with his fingers.

“What?” I cry, dropping my fork.

“Did you put the whole fuckin’ container of salt in? Holy shit.”

I give him a sheepish smile. I don’t know how much salt to put in; I don’t cook. I just tipped a few teaspoons, assuming it would be enough.

“Shit, I think I need to wash my mouth out.”

He stands and rushes off down the hall. I lift the eggs to my nose and breathe in. They smell nice. I poke my tongue out and just touch it on the fluffy, yellow goodness. The salt burns my tongue and I drop the fork quickly, scrunching up my face. God, yuck.

“My guess is that you can’t cook?” Krypt says, joining me at the table again.

I look down at my plate. “No, sorry.”

“No problems, babe,” he says, standing and gathering our plates. “I got it.”

I feel like an idiot, but I don’t say any more. I am suddenly feeling fragile, the reality and weight of the situation piling on me. I stand and leave the room, needing some fresh air.

I step out the front door, inhaling as I go. It’s crisp and clean up here, no gas from the city or pollution; just fresh, sweet air.

I sit on the front step, staring out. My eyes well with tears. I guess breakfast was just a way of taking me back to reality, and back to the fact that I’m stuck here with a man I hardly know, in a difficult situation. What’s going to happen when I go back? Will I ever be able to trust the people I work with? What’s going to happen to Tristan?

“Shit is gettin’ to you, isn’t it babe?”

Krypt sits down beside me, resting his hands on his knees and looking towards me.

“I’m fine,” I croak.

“Hey,” he says, reaching over and taking my chin, turning me towards him. “You don’t need to pretend you’re fine.”

I blink back my tears, hating that I’m showing him such a fragile side. “It’s not that I’m pretending. I feel as safe as I can in this situation here with you; it’s just the hurt over Tristan and the things that were happening right in front of me, and I didn’t even know.”

“You were doin’ your job; you thought they were your friends. You don’t find bad shit if you ain’t lookin’ for it.”

He’s right about that; I had no reason to suspect anything. Not until he came in, anyway.

“I worry about my job when I go back,” I admit, staring into his eyes.

“Don’t,” he growls, low and deep. “Because if anyone bothers you, I’ll make it hurt, babe, don’t doubt it.”

“Why would you do that for me?”

He shrugs. “Because you’re a good girl, and I like you.”

“You don’t really know me.”

He pulls my chin so I come closer. “You gave me a chance when no one else did; you believed in me. It’s enough.”

I swallow, staring at his lips, wanting to taste him again. Our moment is interrupted when the phone rings in his pocket. With a curse, he pulls it out and stares down. I can see Maddox’s name flashing across the screen. He presses a button and puts it on speaker.

“Yeah?”

“We got a problem, Krypt.”

I pretend I’m not listening, but the fact is I am. Krypt quickly takes the phone off speaker, but it’s so quiet out here I can still hear the conversation.

“What’s the problem?” Krypt asks, flashing his eyes towards me before focusing back on his conversation.

“Cops have done a raid, which is fine, they found fuck all, but last night we got a fuckin’ homemade cocktail bomb thrown through the window.”

“What?” Krypt growls. “Fuckin’ who?”

“Take a guess.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Santana was in the room, Krypt. Scared the fuck outta her, but she’s okay.”

Who is Santana?

“What are you goin’ to do?”

“We are goin’ on lockdown, but we can’t do it here. I don’t think it’s goin’ to be the first attack, and until we can get the information we need, we best stay low.”

“You’re comin’ here, aren’t you?” Krypt sighs.

“Just for a bit. I can’t risk anyone in my club gettin’ fucked up over this until I know what’s goin’ on.”

“Right. When are you comin’ up?”

“We’ll be there soon.”

Krypt hangs up the phone and turns to me. “I hope you’re ready to see club life, babe, because you’re about to get front-seat tickets.”

I bite my bottom lip and ponder it, before asking, “How many of them is there?”

“Twenty, give or take. Most of them will stay in the sheds. Maddox and a few of the guys and girls will stay up here.”

“Girls?”

He smirks. “There’s Santana, for a start. She’s always with Maddox. And they’ll bring pussy; it’s how they roll.”

I scrunch my nose. “Pussy?”

He winks at me. “Pussy.”

“Great. Who is Santana?”

He leans back, staring out at the beautiful scenery. “Santana is Maddox’s pain in the ass.”

I narrow my eyes. “His daughter?”

“No, babe. Santana grew up in a tough life; she was homeless at a real young age. Maddox found her convulsing in a street about five years ago. She was only sixteen, and when he got her help, he realized she had no one. Her family is dead. So, he took her in. Let’s just say their relationship is strained. He thinks he owns her, and she doesn’t like being bossed around. The sexual tension is huge.”