Page 69 of Lady and the Butcher
“I’m serious,” he cut in. “Atticus is … he’s my friend, yeah. But I know the world he walks in, Sim. The way people look at him, the way they clear space like it’s instinct. That doesn’t happen because a man’s good at poker. It happens because he’s dangerous. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
The words landed. I looked at Atticus’s hands—one braced on the back of the sofa, the other loose at his side—steady as stone. My stomach did its familiar flip, fear and want tangled so tight I couldn’t tell them apart.
“You don’t have to tell me what you’re doing,” Stephen went on, softer now. “I just need to know you’re not blind to it.”
“I’m not,” I said. It came out thinner than I wanted.
Silence stretched for a beat. Then: “Okay. I’ll call later.”
“Steph—” But the line went dead.
I shoved my phone into my pocket, chest tight. Between Stephen, Mom, Alana, and every woman who might call at two in the morning about a contraction, the list of people watching for me stretched longer than I wanted to admit. They’d all notice I was slipping. They’d all wonder why I hadn’t been as available as usual, why my texts were shorter, why I looked lit from some flame I hadn’t named yet.
We took the elevator down into a lobby rinsed with quiet and daylight. The valet had the car waiting, sun winking on the hood, the air still cool enough to pretend Charleston was gentle.
Atticus’s hand found the small of my back for one beat, and then I was sliding into the clean, dim interior, the door closing soft as a secret. By the time our seat belts clicked, morning was already peeling the city open—church bells somewhere, delivery trucks shouldering past, tourists in fresh sneakers. A few turns later, the postcard edges blurred: marsh grass gave way to rusted chain-link, cranes hunched against a sky the color of metal. The air shifted with it, trading salt for diesel.
I wanted to ask where we were going. I wanted to demand it. But the truth was, I already knew I would follow.
“Where?” I managed finally, trying for casual and missing.
He didn’t glance over. His hand rested steady on the wheel, other hand on the gearshift like he was built to hold things in place. “A check.”
“A check for what?”
The corner of his mouth moved, not quite humor. “Compliance.”
The word rang with weight. It wasn’t paperwork compliance. It wasn’t nurses signing forms. It was something more serious.
I swallowed. My body went hot and cold at the same time.
The road narrowed. We passed stretches of scrub grass and billboards sun-faded into nonsense. He turned into a lot graveled with oyster shells, the sound sharp under the tires. Ahead, a warehouse squatted by the river, its bricks patched like bad dentistry, windows clouded, roof ridged with rust.
He killed the engine. The silence after the hum of the car felt deliberate.
“Stay close,” he said.
The way he said it made something low in me tighten. Not request. Not suggestion. A fact.
“I wasn’t planning to wander,” I muttered, but my pulse tripped, anyway.
He shoved the warehouse door open. The hinges groaned like something waking. Inside, the air changed: cooler, denser, laced with oil and a metallic tang that made the back of my tongue taste like pennies.
Six men looked up from clipboards, crates, forklifts.
Every single one of them straightened when they saw him.
“Boss,” one said, dipping his chin.
Atticus nodded once. Already moving. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The room bent to him.
I followed, every nerve buzzing. I told myself I was an observer, that I could stand in a corner with my tote and watch. But my body knew I was in a place where the rules didn’t belong to me.
The warehouse stretched deeper than I’d expected. Containers lined the walls, their steel sides tagged with chalk codes. Pallets wrapped in plastic gleamed under hanging lights. Forklift tracks cut grooves into the dust. It could have been ordinary. If you squinted.
“Why here?” I whispered.
“To remind someone,” he said. “Of what matters.”
