The heavy oak door of Dad’s office groans on its hinges as Locke pushes it open.
I lean against the doorframe, letting out a long, heavy breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my ribs for days.
“We’re so far behind,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until little bursts of light dance behind my eyelids. “Locke, we haven't touched these files in weeks. Between my recovery, resting for the baby, and getting snatched up by f*****g Knox, we’ve completely let the paper trail slide.”
“Hey,” Locke says softly, his broad hand settling warm and heavy against the small of my back. “We’ve been keeping you alive and keeping the club standing, baby. Nobody’s keeping score on the paperwork.”
“I’m keeping score,” I sigh, looking at the untouched boxes stacked near the desk
