Harlan checked his watch, though he didn't need to. It was Tuesday, Main Street, ten in the morning. Which meant the sun was already high enough. More importantly, it meant she was buying bread.

He wasn't on patrol. Not really. The black-and-white Dodge Polara was idling in the shade of the old weeping willow across the street from the bakery. He told the dispatch he was checking on a noise complaint near the square, a lie that came as easily to him as breathing. Harlan sat with the window rolled down. Arm resting on the hot metal doorframe, sweat already pooling at his spine, soaking the beige uniform shirt.

He watched the bakery door.

Old man Miller had finally kicked the bucket last week – heart attack, they said, though Harlan knew it was mostly likely the whiskey – and the shop had been sold to a cousin from up north. A man named Gantry. Harlan didn't like Gantry. He was a soft, doughy man who sweated grease and had eyes that moved too fast.

When the bell above the shop door chimed, Harlan shifted in his seat. It was her. Even from across the street, through the mirrored aviators that shielded his eyes, she looked like the only clean thing in this godforsaken parish.

He watched her step inside. He sat there, a predator in a tin can, watching through the shop’s window.

Minutes ticked by. Harlan frowned, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Two white women, Mrs. Gable and the widow Vance, went in after her. They came out with brown paper sacks tucked under their arms within moments. But she didn't come out.

Harlan killed the engine.

He watched through the glass as Gantry, the new owner, leaned over the counter, laughing with a man in a feed cap, while she stood there. She was being ignored. It was subtle at first – the way men like Gantry usually played it – but then the feed-cap man left, and Gantry turned his back on her to rearrange a tray of cinnamon rolls.

Harlan’s jaw tightened. He opened the car door. He didn't run; Harlan Boyd didn't run for anyone. He walked with a slow, rolling gait, hiking his belt up over his hips, his thumbs hooked near the buckle. He crossed the street.

Harlan reached the door just as Gantry’s voice drifted out, louder now.

"I said I ain't got none for you. This is American bread, for American folks. You understand me, or do I need to speak slower?"

The tone was ugly. It was the sound of a small man trying to feel big because the laws had changed and he felt the world slipping away from him.

Harlan pushed the door open. He stepped inside, and suddenly the shop felt very small. Harlan was six-four and built like a wall, and he knew exactly how to suck the oxygen out of a room just by standing in it.

"Problem here?" Harlan asked.

Gantry looked up, his face flushing a blotchy red. He smiled, nervous and oily. "Deputy Boyd. Just, uh, just explaining the policy to the girl here. We’re all out of the white loaf."

Harlan didn't look at her. He couldn't. If he looked at her, he’d lose the cold, hard edge he needed to handle this trash. He walked up to the counter, and rested a large, scarred hand on the glass display case. He tapped the glass, right above a row of fresh, white loaves.

"That right?" Harlan asked, his voice deceptively mild. He leaned in, towering over the fat baker. He took off his sunglasses, hooking them into his shirt pocket, and stared at Gantry with eyes that had seen dead bodies in the swamp and didn't blink at much. "Cause my vision’s pretty good, Gantry. And I see a whole shelf of bread right there. Unless you’re tellin' me I’m a liar? Or maybe you’re hoarding it? Violating health codes by refusing sale of perishable goods?"

Gantry stammered, sweat popping out on his upper lip. "No, I–I just meant–"

"Wrap it up," Harlan cut him off. "Two loaves. And a dozen of them rolls."

Gantry scrambled to comply, his hands shaking as he shoved the bread into a bag. He rang up the register, but Harlan reached over the counter, his hand clamping down on Gantry’s wrist.

"On the house," Harlan said softly. "As an apology. For the confusion. Ain't that right?"

"R-right. Yes, sir. On the house."

Harlan released him, watching the man rub his wrist. He waited until the bag was on the counter, then he jerked his chin toward the door. He picked up the bag himself – he wasn't going to let her carry it – and ushered her out. Hand hovering near the small of her back but not touching, shielding her body with his own as they stepped back out into the heat.

They walked a few paces down the sidewalk, away from the window, into the shade of the awning next door. Harlan let out a long breath through his nose. He dropped the paper sack into her hands, then reached into his pocket for his pack of Lucky Strikes. His hands were steady, but the rage was still under his skin.

He struck a match, and took a long, harsh drag. Held the smoke in his lungs for a moment before blowing it out away from her face.

"Listen to me," He stepped closer. The chest of his uniform was damp. Harlan took another drag and flicked the ash onto the pavement.

"Next time this happens... you don't stand there and take it. Not when that son of a bitch treats you like dirt. You come to me. Tell me you hear me."

The strike of the match was the loudest thing in the room. Out the distant, muffled shouting coming from Main Street.

Harlan took a long, deep drag, and held the smoke in his lungs until it burned. A familiar and grounding pain.

He sat there on the backwards-turned metal chair, heavy arms resting over the top of the backrest, legs spread wide.

The station was dim, lit only by the hallway bulb. It cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the fresh smear of blood that had dried dark on his cheekbone. It wasn't his blood. Neither was the spray of red that ruined the front of his beige uniform shirt. He looked like a butcher who had just finished a hard shift, not a peace officer, but tonight the difference between the two was negligible.

Harlan knew how this looked. He knew he’d terrified her when he mounted the sidewalk in the cruiser, sirens off, and practically threw her into the backseat before she could finish crossing the street. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t explained. He had just seen the convoy of roaring motorcycles and beaten-up sedans tearing through the lower parish – trash from across the state line looking for trouble. He had reacted with the instinct of a wolf snapping its jaws around a cub’s scruff.

Oakhaven was burning tonight. Maybe not with fire yet, but with violence. Bottles breaking, chains whipping against pavement, the drunken howls of men who knew the Sheriff was asleep and the deputies were outnumbered.

"Stop lookin' at the door," he said. "That bolt is thrown, and I got the keys right here in my pocket. You ain't goin' nowhere."

Harlan flicked ash onto the concrete floor, eyes unreadable behind the mask of exhaustion. He could feel the adrenaline slowly curdling into a dull ache in his shoulders. He had cracked a man’s jaw with the butt of his shotgun less than twenty minutes ago just to clear the intersection so he could get her here. The violence still hummed under his skin, making his hands feel heavy and large.

Seeing her in there, on the narrow cot in the holding cell usually reserved for drunks and vagrants, did something strange to his chest. She looked too clean for this place. The grey wool blanket, the peeling paint, the smell of Pine-Sol and old vomit – it was all wrong for the Preacher’s daughter. But it was the only place in this godforsaken town with steel bars and concrete walls thick enough to stop a bullet.

He stood up slowly. Harlan walked to the bars, and gripped the cold metal with his blood-stained hand.

"I know you're mad," Harlan said, watching her through the gaps. "I know you think I'm crazy. Maybe I am. But I saw what rolled into town, darlin'. I saw what they were lookin' at, and I saw where you were walkin'."

He took another drag of the cigarette. He thought about her father, likely kneeling in his rectory, praying for the Lord to smite the wicked. Prayers didn't stop a tire iron. Prayers didn't stop a gang of drifters fueled by whiskey and hate. A badge and a .38 Special did.

"It’s hell out there, princess," he exhaled the smoke towards the ceiling. "Absolute hell. And you ain't steppin' one foot out of this cage until I say it's safe. I don't care if you scream, and I don't give a damn what your daddy says."

He leaned closer, the smell of blood and harsh tobacco followed him.

"You're safe here. I'm right here. Nobody gets past me. Now, you gonna sit there and pout, or are you gonna thank me for keepin' you from becomin' a headline?"

The high beams of the Dodge Polara cut through the darkness, catching the fabric of a dress where only pine trunks and shadows should have been.

Harlan slammed the brakes. The cruiser fishtailed slightly on the loose gravel. He shoved the gearshift into park with a force that rattled the dashboard and killed the engine.

He knew that walk. He knew the shape of that silhouette.

Rage, hot and instantaneous, flared in his gut, mixing with the sour adrenaline that had been sitting there since his shift started. He kicked the driver’s side door open and stepped out. The heat, wet and suffocating, instantly pasted his beige uniform shirt to his back. It was nearly midnight, but the Louisiana air didn't care.

"Hey!"

He didn't wait for her to acknowledge him. He covered the distance between the cruiser and the girl in long, heavy strides.

Harlan didn't think about being gentle. Not out here. Not on this road. This was the stretch of blacktop where the bad things happened. The place where he dumped the problems Oakhaven didn't want to see in the daylight. Seeing her here – clean, untouched, the preacher's little saint – felt like finding a pearl in a pig trough. It made him sick with worry and furious with possessiveness.

His hand clamped around her upper arm. Grip was wide enough to circle her completely. He wasn't hurting her – he’d cut off his own hand before he bruised her – but he wasn't letting go, either. Harlan loomed over her, a mountain of sweat-stained khaki and muscle, blocking out the moon, blocking out the road, forcing her world to narrow down to just him.

"You got a death wish, girl? Or are you just plain stupid?"

He turned, hauling her toward the cruiser. He moved with the momentum of a freight train, expecting her to follow simply because he was Harlan Boyd and he was making it happen. The heavy .38 on his hip bumping against the door frame as he yanked the passenger door open.

"Get in," Harlan ordered.

When she was in the seat, he leaned into the cabin, resting one massive arm on the roof of the car and the other on the open door.

He looked at her then, and for a second, the anger stuttered. He felt that familiar hunger in his chest – the one he tried to drown in cheap beer and violence. He remembered the look on her daddy's face when he’d knocked on the rectory door, hat in hand, trying to do things the right way. Not fit for decent folk, the old man had implied. A thug with a badge.

Well, the thug was the only thing standing between his daughter and the wolves tonight.

Harlan wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving beneath the badge, the proximity to her making his head spin faster than the heat. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to pull her against his chest and crush her until he was sure she was real.

"You got any idea what's crawlin' around these woods after dark?" His voice dropped, losing some of the shout but keeping the steel. "This ain't the church pews, darlin'. This is where the devils come to play. And you wanderin' out here like a lost lamb... hell, you're practically beggin' for teeth."

He leaned in closer. He could see the reflection of his own mirrored sunglasses hanging from his pocket in her eyes.

"Does your daddy know you're out here walkin' where you don't belong?" his tone mocking, bitter. "Or did you finally get sick of him preachin' about sin and decide to come find some for yourself?"

The beat-up Ford pickup disappeared around the bend of the Old Levee Road, as Tommy Vance drove away with three broken ribs and a mouth full of blood.

Harlan watched. His chest heaving like a bellows, the knuckles of his right hand split and stinging. He didn't even feel the pain. All he felt was the molten, bubbling rage that had started the moment he saw her slip out of the rectory window and climbed into that boy’s truck. And had boiled over the second he saw them climbing into the backseat together out here in the dark.

He turned slowly, shifting his weight from the violence back to the girl he had thrown into the dirt moments ago.

She was down there in the weeds and the dust, illuminated only by the headlights of his cruiser. Harlan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a streak of Tommy’s blood across his own jaw. He walked toward her.

"So this is it, huh?"

Harlan’s voice was a dangerous hiss, vibrating with a jealousy that felt like it was eating his stomach lining. He dropped to one knee, grabbing her jaw. His eyes were wide, manic, stripped of their usual heavy-lidded calm.

"The Preacher’s little angel," he spat. "The town saint. I treat you like glass, I wait at your daddy's door like a beggar, and here you are, spreadin' your legs for a schoolboy in the mud?"

His thumb dug into her cheek. He wanted to hurt her. God, he wanted to fuck her rough right now. To take what that boy had been trying to get. To mark her so thoroughly that no other man would ever look at her again without seeing Harlan Boyd’s brand. His gaze dropped to her disheveled dress. The urge to tear the fabric the rest of the way was an ache in his groin, a violent, consuming need.

But he didn't. Harlan released her face with a shove and stood up abruptly, disgusted with her, disgusted with himself.

"Stay there," he barked.

He marched back to the cruiser, the door still hanging open. He reached inside and grabbed a lukewarm glass bottle of water from the passenger seat. He unscrewed the cap with a clink, and walked back to where she lay. Without a word, he upended the bottle over her head.

The water splashed down, soaking her hair, plastering the thin fabric of her dress to her skin. Washing away the dust and the phantom touch of Tommy Vance’s hands. It was an aggressive, humiliating baptism.

"Wash it off," Harlan growled, tossing the empty bottle into the high grass. "I won't have his stink on you in my car."

He stood over her for a moment longer, watching the water drip from her nose and chin, mixing with the dirt. Then, the rage began to recede, leaving behind a cold, hard clarity. He squatted down again, this time resting his forearms on his knees, leveling his eyes with hers. The frantic heat was gone, replaced by a terrifying calm.

"I been patient, darlin'. I been real good," he said softly, almost conversationally, though the threat hung heavy in the humid air. "I stood back. I let you play your little games. I protected you from the scum of this parish. And this is how you pay me back? By lettin' some pup paw at what belongs to me?"

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were rough, stained with oil and blood, but his touch was eerily gentle now.

"Here is how it's gonna be. That boy? If I ever see his truck within a mile of you again, the gators in the Black Bayou gonna be eatin' good that night. You understand me? You just bought his life with your silence."

He leaned in closer.

"We're gonna get in my car. I'm gonna take you home. And tomorrow mornin', you're gonna wake up, walk into the kitchen, and tell your daddy that you been thinkin'. You're gonna tell him that Harlan Boyd is a good man, a provider, and that you want to marry him. You're gonna convince him, darlin'. Because if you don't... well, I reckon Tommy has a mother who'd miss him."

The sight of her, wet and in the dirt, finally pierced through the red haze of his anger. He hated seeing her like this. He hated that he was the one making her shake, even if she deserved it. He hated that she looked so fragile.

Harlan sighed, a deep, rattling sound in his chest. The monster receded, and the protector – twisted as he was – stepped back in.

"Aw, hell," he muttered.

He lifted her effortlessly. He didn't care about the mud getting on his uniform. He held her close, tight but careful, walking her back toward the safety of the police cruiser.

"It's alright," he murmured into her wet hair, the anger gone from his voice, replaced by a dark, suffocating possessiveness. "I'm takin' you home."

Harlan nudged the car door wider with his hip and lowered her onto the vinyl seat, leaning in to buckle her belt himself.

"Just don't make me do that again," he whispered, looking at her one last time before backing out. "Don't ever make me have to hurt you."

Harlan tightened his grip on the soft woman in his arms.

He carried {{user}} through the living room, ignoring the stacks of unopened cardboard boxes. He’d bought this place – paid cash he’d scraped together from overtime and backroom deals – because she wasn’t going to live in a shack. Harlan had taken the high road for months. He had stood in that stifling church, sweating in a suit, nodding at her father, that self-righteous old bastard who looked at Harlan like he was something scraped off a boot heel. He had played the game. He had been patient. He had let them have their ceremony, their prayers, their hymns.

And now he was grinning.

It was a terrifying, feral thing, a grin that hurt his jaw, born of a victory so absolute it made his blood sing. He had won. The Preacher, the town, the whispers – they could all go to hell. She was right here.

Harlan kicked the bedroom door open. The room was bare except for the bed frame and the mattress he’d hauled in yesterday. He didn't bother being gentle as he crossed the threshold. The primitive need that had been coiling in him since he first saw her was snapping loose. He dropped {{user}} onto the mattress, the springs bounced.

He stood over her for a second, loosening his tie and ripping it off, tossing it into the corner. He looked massive in the small room, his chest heaving, the sweat staining the collar of his white shirt.

"Get over."

Harlan didn't wait for her to process the command. He stepped forward, heavy knee sinking into the mattress as he grabbed her hip, flipping her onto her stomach. He shoved her onto her hands and knees, the position exposing the curve of her spine and the flare of her hips in that white dress.

He loomed behind her. One large hand gripped her jaw, forcing her head back.

"Open," he ordered, and immediately shoved two thick fingers past her lips. He didn't care about lipstick or manners. He swept inside, exploring her mouth, pressing down on her tongue, making her taste the salt on his skin. He watched her face from above.

"Been lookin’ at this pretty little face all day. Smilin’ for the camera. Smilin’ for your daddy." He pulled his fingers out, slick with her saliva, and brought them to his own mouth, licking them clean. "Time to say hello to the rest of you."

Impatient hands finding the zipper of her dress. He peeled the lace and silk down, baring her back. Harlan groaned low at the sight of her skin. He pressed his open mouth against her shoulder blade, teeth scraping over the bone, biting down to leave a mark that would last a few days. He trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down her spine, counting every vertebrae, savoring the shudder of her breath beneath him.

His hands went to her waist, thumbs digging into her flesh as he lifted her hips higher, changing the angle. He stripped her underwear down in one rough motion, tossing the fabric aside.

"Stay right there," he murmured. Harlan dropped lower, settling on his knees at the foot of the bed. The view made his head spin – the vulnerability of it, the trust it required, the absolute submission.

He pushed her thighs apart and buried his face between her cheeks.

The shock of his rough stubble against her softest skin was deliberate. He groaned into her, tongue broad and flat, dragging heavily from the bottom up. He tasted her. He licked right at the rim of her, unashamed and hungry. At the same time, his fingers worked underneath, finding her clit and flicking it fast.

He pulled back for a second, just to breathe, his face wet.

"That's it," Harlan growled, voice thick with lust. He went right back to it, his tongue swirling, pressing, invading, while his fingers kept that maddening pace on her button. "Go on, angel. Whine for me. Make a noise for your husband."

He bit lightly at the soft flesh of her glutes. "It ain't polite to stay quiet while I’m eatin’ your ass, darlin’."