She is exhausted, bruised, and dressed in the evidence of a life she fled too fast to fold.
Still, there is something elegant about the way she holds herself. Not fancy. Not untouched. Elegant in the way a woman can stand in borrowed light and still refuse to let shame decide her posture.
“I can wash these,” she says.
“Of course.”
“I don’t need much.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
Her chin lifts a little. “I mean, I’m not trying to take over your house.”
“This isn’t my house.”
Derby huffs under his breath. “Could’ve fooled every man downstairs.”
I give him a look.
He looks pleased with himself for half a second, then sees Amelia watching us.
Her face has changed.
She is studying me now. Not the clothes. Not the room. Me.
Maybe she hears what Derby said. Maybe she sees that I can give a look to a dangerous man and survive it. Maybe she sees that power in this place doesn’t only wear a cut.
I want her to see that.
I need her to.
“The clubhouse belongs to the club,” I say. “But I keep rooms ready because women end up needing them more often than anyone wants to admit.”
Amelia’s eyes drop. “Women like me.”
“Women,” I correct.
She flinches at the correction, not because it’s harsh, but because it’s blunt.
Derby shifts his weight near the door.
I look at him. “Thank you. We can handle the rest.”
He doesn’t move.
“Derby.”
“I’m supposed to watch ’em.”
“From the hall.”
His jaw tightens. “That door locks?”
“Yes.”
“Window?”
“Painted shut, but it opens if you know how to argue with it.”