Chapter 2: The Lion's Den
The interior of Caden's SUV smelled like expensive leather and something crisp, like cedarwood after a rainstorm. It was a hell of a contrast to the murky, sewage-scented water I'd just been standing in.
I sat in the passenger seat, feeling like a total fraud. I was soaking wet, shivering, and probably leaving a giant mud stain on a seat that cost more than my entire life savings. In the back, Maisie was strapped into a seat that looked like it belonged in a fighter jet, her eyes wide as she poked at the glowing buttons on the door.
"Don't touch those, baby," I muttered, my teeth literally chattering.
"Let her," Caden growled. He didn't look at me. He just gripped the steering wheel with those massive, calloused hands and navigated the flooded street like he owned the damn pavement. "The car won't break. You, on the other hand, look like you're about to snap in half."
"I'm fine," I snapped back, though my body betrayed me with a violent shudder. "I just... I just need a minute to think. I can call my cousin in Jersey. Or maybe a shelter—"
"You're not going to a shelter in Jersey with a five-year-old and a chest full of smoke," he cut me off. His voice was cold, flat, and left zero room for argument. "You're coming to my place. You'll dry off, the kid will eat, and you'll finish those meds the hospital gave you. End of story."
I wanted to fight him. I really did. My pride was screaming at me to open the door and jump back into the puddle, but then I looked in the rearview mirror at Maisie. She was exhausted. There were dark circles under her little emerald eyes, and she was still clutching that charred, half-ruined teddy bear.
I closed my eyes and let out a breath that tasted like ash. "Fine. But just for tonight. And I'm paying you back for the hospital. I don't care if it takes me twenty years."
I saw his jaw tighten. A muscle jumped in his cheek, but he didn't say a word.
We pulled into a driveway that felt like it belonged in a different universe. It wasn't just a house; it was this sharp, modern structure of glass and dark stone tucked behind a massive iron gate. It looked exactly like him—rugged, intimidating, and way too expensive for someone like me to even look at.
"We here?" Maisie asked, her voice small.
"We're here," Caden said. He killed the engine, and for a second, the silence in the car was heavy enough to choke on. He turned his head then, those jet-black eyes locking onto mine. "My name is Caden, by the way. Since you're currently planning how to pay me back, you might as well know who to write the check to."
I felt that jolt again—that weird, magnetic pull that made my skin prickle. "Amara," I whispered.
"I know," he said. Then he hopped out before I could ask how the hell he knew my name.
The inside of the house was "minimalist," which is just a fancy word for "barely has any furniture." It was all polished concrete floors and giant windows. Caden led us up a floating staircase—which terrified me, honestly—and opened a door to a bedroom that was bigger than my entire flooded apartment.
"Bathroom's through there. Towels are in the closet. There's a guest robe on the hook," he directed, his tone back to that robotic, efficient vibe. "Put your clothes in the basket outside the door. I'll have them cleaned."
"Caden, wait—"
He was already halfway down the hall. "Food will be ready in thirty. Don't fall asleep in the tub. I don't feel like doing another rescue today."
I stood there, staring at the empty hallway. "Total jerk," I muttered.
"He's nice, Mommy," Maisie said, already bouncing on the massive, cloud-like bed. "He has a big TV!"
I spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing the soot and the shame off my skin in a shower that had more nozzles than I knew what to do with. When I stepped out, wrapped in a grey robe that was five sizes too big and smelled like him, I felt almost human again.
When we walked downstairs, the smell of actual, real food hit me like a physical blow. Caden was in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off forearms that were literally a map of scars and muscle. He was flipping grilled cheese sandwiches in a pan while a pot of tomato soup simmered.
"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the island.
We sat. Maisie inhaled her sandwich like she hadn't eaten in a week, which wasn't far from the truth. I picked at mine, my stomach in knots. Caden stood across from us, leaning against the counter with a cup of black coffee, watching us with an expression I couldn't read.
"Why?" I finally asked, looking up at him. "You don't know us. You saved us, fine—that's your job. But the hospital? The car? This?"
Caden set his mug down. He moved toward me, his presence taking up every bit of air in the room. He stopped just inches away, leaning down until we were eye-to-eye.
"I don't like unfinished business, Amara," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous velvet. "And I don't like seeing things that are meant to be bright getting dimmed by a little bit of mud."
His eyes dropped to my lips for a split second, and my heart decided to do a frantic tap-dance against my ribs.
"Now eat," he said, pulling back abruptly. "Then you're going to bed. We'll figure out your 'payback' in the morning."
The Cold Protocol
The grilled cheese tasted like actual food, which was a miracle, but the silence in the kitchen was uncomfortable. Caden didn't sit with us. He stood by the far counter, his back to us, scrolling through a tablet. He didn't ask if the food was good. He didn't ask how I felt. He just existed in the room like a very expensive, very muscular piece of furniture.
"You're doing it again," I said, my voice sounding small in the massive kitchen.
He didn't look up from the screen. "Doing what?"
"The robot thing. You haven't looked at us once since you put the plates down. Most people... they talk. You know, small talk? 'How's the soup, Amara?' 'Is the kid okay?'"
He finally turned his head, his expression as flat as a sheet of glass. "The soup is standard. The child is eating, which suggests she is fine. Anything else is an inefficient use of breath."
I blinked. Wow. Okay. "Right. Efficient. Sorry for being a human distraction in your data-driven evening."
He didn't even acknowledge the sarcasm. He just tapped something on his tablet and walked toward the door. "When you're finished, put the plates in the washer. It's automated. Don't try to wash them by hand; you'll probably break something."
"Is that your way of saying 'goodnight'?" I called out as he reached the hallway.
"It's my way of telling you where the dishwasher is," he replied without looking back.
Maisie finished her sandwich and looked at me, her eyes heavy. "Mommy, is the big man mad at us?"
"No, baby," I whispered, stroking her hair. "He's just... calibrated differently."
I cleaned up, feeling like a ghost in a museum. I led Maisie back up to the guest room. She fell asleep the second her head hit the pillow, but I was wired. The fever was gone, replaced by a restless, buzzing energy. I couldn't stay in that room.
I crept back downstairs, my bare feet silent on the concrete. I found Caden in a glass-walled office at the end of the hall. He was still working. The "robot" was in his element. He was staring at three different monitors showing building schematics and what looked like heat-signature maps of the hotel fire.
"Why are you still awake?" he asked. He didn't even turn around. How did he know I was there? Did he have sensors in the floor?
"I can't sleep in a house that feels like a laboratory," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "Why are you looking at the hotel?"
"Research," he said. He finally leaned back in his chair, but he didn't look at me. He looked at the wall. "The fire started in three places at once. Grease fires don't do that. Someone wanted that building down, and they didn't care that a maid and her kid were in Room 412."
My blood turned to ice. "Someone tried to kill us?"
"They tried to burn a building. You were just an inconvenient variable," he said, his tone as cold as a winter morning. He finally looked at me, his jet-black eyes completely unreadable. "You're staying here because out there, you're a variable that needs to be erased. Here, you're under my protection protocol."
"Protection protocol? I'm a person, Caden, not a line of code."
"In this house, the difference is negligible," he said, turning back to his screens. "Go to bed, Amara. Tomorrow, I'll give you a list of rules. Follow them, and you'll stay safe. Break them, and I'll find a shelter that takes 'high-vibration' personalities."
I stood there for a second, wanting to scream, wanting to throw something at his perfectly straight back. But I didn't. I just turned and walked away.
As I reached the stairs, I heard the faint sound of him typing again. He was cold, he was rude, and he was the most frustrating man I'd ever met. But as I tucked myself back into bed next to Maisie, I realized something. He'd made sure we were fed. He'd made sure we were warm. He'd even found a brand-new teddy bear—one that looked exactly like Maisie's old one—and left it on the nightstand while I was in the shower.
He was a robot, alright. But somewhere deep inside that machine, there was a man who still knew how to be a hero—even if he hated himself for it.