A/N - **guilty look** hey guys. So remember when I said I'd update eventually? So look! I did! Sorry I just made you wait forever and ever, but seriously, I really appreciated all of the reviews and pleas for my return during the hiatus. The grad school app season is winding down, season 3 is winding up, and that means this story should be regularly updated again!

Thank you so much for not abandoning my lovely racer and the rest of the characters. Sorry if there are any typos in this chapter but I just wanted to get it done and out to you awesome people, so I might edit it tomorrow. This will be a San x San chapter, but I think you'll like it : )

Sansa pulls her car into the dark parking lot and shuts off the engine. It's almost eleven o'clock at night. The area is dead silent. She slips the manila folder out of her purse and opens her car door, heading towards the front entrance of Baratheon Corporations. Arya promised to keep Joffrey far away from the building tonight so that Sansa could return the documents unnoticed.

The key is warm in her moist palm, and she fumbles with it for a moment before sliding it into the lock on the front door. Her flats pad silently against the marble floor as she makes her way to the elevator. Something about being in the building past business hours raises the hairs on her arms and sends prickles against the back of her neck. She shivers as the elevator takes her to the top floor of the building.

Robert's office is still unlocked, and Sansa laughs softly in the silence. Robert. Joffrey. Cersei. They're all idiots. So comfortable in their power and tyranny. So sure that no one would ever try to defy them. Sansa walks into the office and fiddles with the top drawer, unlocking it with a light click. She slides it open, relieved to almost be done, to be free of any suspicions, when suddenly, she spots a sheet of paper lying alone in the drawer. Thick black letters are scrawled across the single white page:

I know what you took, Sansa. Put it back, keep your pretty little mouth shut, marry Joffrey like a good little bird, and your family will stay safe.

Sansa gasps and takes a step back, knocking against a cabinet. A pile of books falls to the ground with a loud thump. Her heart is racing, and she has to take her breaths in sharp, short bursts. How did they know? She wore a mask the night she stole the documents. How could they possibly...

She moves forward and glances at the note again, just to be sure it's really there, just to be sure she didn't imagine the whole thing. But it's real. Concrete. The thick black letters taunting her.

And your family will stay safe.

Somehow the threat seems so much more sinister than the rest of Joffrey's promises. Nothing about suing her father or sending him to jail. No. This note is a threat, a threat to the safety of her family. Tears prick at the corners of Sansa's eyes. She thought she was finally safe. She thought she had finally won. But how can she pursue her evidence against the Baratheon's when one of them is threatening the lives of her family? It's not worth it. It's not.

The tears threaten to stream down her face, but Sansa won't let them. She rubs furiously at her eyes until they're raw and red, and then she takes a few deep breaths. She's strong. She can do this. For her family, she can do what needs to be done.

She takes the note and slips it into her purse, placing the manila folder back in its place. Its like she can feel eyes watching her from every angle. The entire building feels infested. Poisonous.

She locks the drawer, grabs her bag, and rushes back to the safety of her car.

Arya won't pick up. Sansa tries her five times in a row, but the phone seems to be disconnected. Maybe she didn't make the last phone payment, Sansa thinks. She needs to tell Arya what happened. Even though the note didn't mention Arya's name, she could be in danger too. It's impossible to know how much the Baratheons are aware of. Sometimes it feels like they have spies all over the city.

Sansa drives to Arya's motel. It's well past midnight now, and she should be back from her race against Sandor. She knocks on the door twice, but there's no answer. The room is dark. The blinds are shut. And Nymeria isn't barking.

A feeling of dread washes over Sansa. She tells herself to ignore it. Arya is fine. The threat was only if Sansa pursued the Baratheon's illegal dealings. But Sansa knows she won't rest easy until she knows Arya is safe. She doesn't want to be alone tonight, but with Arya missing, there really isn't anywhere else to turn.

She almost laughs at the thought of returning home to Joffrey, returning to his cold glares and his hard fists. And how could she face him tonight, not knowing if he's the one who left the note? She could call Margaery, but something about that idea makes her uneasy. Maybe she's putting too much trust in her new friend.

Sansa walks back to her car, and a quick thought flits through her mind. It's just a name. A feeling really. An impulse. Sandor.

Before thinking it through, she gets back into her car and drives to his apartment. She can see that his small kitchen light is on through the window, and hesitating only a moment, she knocks on the door.

Her stomach clenches when he opens the door. He's shirtless again, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants, exposing the cords of his thick, scarred muscles. His broad frame fills up almost the entire doorway. There's a beer in his hand, and she can smell the sharp scent of alcohol.

Sandor's dark eyes narrow. "Little bird," he says. "What a surprise."

Little bird. Just like the note. The words make her shiver again, and suddenly, she can't be outside for another minute. She feels like the eyes are still on her. Everyone watching her. The Baratheons gathering around her. Preparing to strike in the dark night.

"I," she says, "I need to come in."

And then she pushes past Sandor, hand brushing just barely against his chest, as she hurries into the apartment.

"Close the door," she says. "Please."

He does as she asks and follows her back into the small room, his long legs taking swaggering steps. "I wasn't expecting you," he repeats.

The apartment seems emptier than last time. Or maybe she just didn't notice how bare it really was. No picture frames. No candles. No books. Just a glass jar of whiskey on the table and a few empty beer bottles.

"I'm sorry," Sansa says. "I...I didn't know where else to go."

Sandor takes a few steps closer to Sansa. He towers over her. The scent of the alcohol is mixed with the clean scent of his soap, and Sansa finds herself leaning towards him.

"You don't look hurt," Sandor says.

"No, I'm not. Joffrey didn't. That's not—" Sansa breaks off. Her hands are shaking. She can't tell Sandor what's wrong without revealing too much. Sure he's been helping her, but how far can she really trust him?

"I just, I just need—" She glances at the glass jar on the table. "Can I have some of that?"

Sandor grunts. A laugh, maybe. "The whiskey?"

"Yes."

He grins, the scarred skin around his mouth pulling taut. "Have you ever had whiskey, girl?"

"Yes. Of course I have."

And she had. Once. When she mixed it with an extra large cup of coke at a party.

"Help yourself then."

Sansa moves into the tiny kitchen. She can feel Sandor watching her, but something about his gaze is comforting. Protective. And somehow, even strangely arousing. She opens the cabinets until she finds a second glass. She sits down at the table and pours herself whiskey, filling the glass halfway with the dark liquid.

He's watching her, and when she looks up, their eyes meet and she feels that maybe he's finally seeing her as something other than Joffrey's pretty little chew toy.

"Join me?" She asks.

He hesitates before grunting once and moving towards the table. He takes the chair next to her and refills his empty glass. Sansa feels his leg brushing against hers under the table.

She lifts her glass and Sandor does the same. They clink them together. "Cheers," she says.

"To what?"

Sansa lets out a long sigh. "I don't know," she says. " I don't fucking know."

And then she downs the whiskey in one, long sip.

The bottle sits empty on the table. Sansa is tottering around the apartment, running her fingers against the cabinets and the drawers, opening them up as she passes, curious of Sandor's lack of possessions. He's sitting in the kitchen chair, just watching her. His slouched posture is the only sign of his intoxication.

Sansa's cheeks are warm. The cold dread has finally disappeared. She feels comfortable her in this small, empty space.

"Come on," Sansa says. "Let's practice."

Sandor snorts. "Practice?"

The room is warm. Sansa leans against the couch, fumbling a bit to take off her shoes. "We might as well. You're here. I'm here. The night is young. Let's stop the dillydallying and do some boxing."

"Dillydallying?" The word sounds even more ridiculous from his lips, and Sansa lets out a giggle.

"Come on," she says again. "I've got to learn how to beat the big bad wolf, don't I?"

Sandor scratches behind his ear. "I suppose so."

"So let's get to it."

After a bit more persuasion, Sandor follows Sansa into the tiny gym room in the back of his apartment. The mats are already laid out on the floor. Sansa jumps on them and rocks on the balls of her feet, putting her fists in the air.

"Let's practice what we did last week," she says. "I think I've really got a good punch now."

"Hmm," Sandor says. His long hair is pushed back from his face, and Sansa lets her eyes wander over his darks eyes, down to his twisted lips. Something about them is alluring. They look so much sweeter than Joffrey's soft ones.

Sandor shifts under her stares and turns around the grab the punching gloves. He straps them onto his hands and then walks towards Sansa.

"All right little bird," Sandor says. "Show me what you've practiced."

Little bird, little bird, little bird. She won't be the Baratheon's pet. She won't let Joffrey touch her. If she has to marry him, she will. She'll protect her family no matter what. She can do it. But she won't let him lay a hand on her for the rest of their lives. She'll lie like a wolf in their bed each night, and if he tries to touch her, she'll bite.

Sandor holds up the gloves, and Sansa raises her arms higher. Her balance is off from the whiskey, but her body is on fire. She can feel the strength rushing through her. It feels good. It feels right.

She lunges forward and punch, punch, punch. Again and again and again. The punches land hard. Sandor even stumbles back once. And she keeps going and going even as sweat drips from her brow and her arms start to shake. Punch, punch, punch. She won't let Joffrey cage her into submission. He can marry her, but he can't have her, and he'll never own her. She'll make sure of that.

Punch, punch, punch. Sandor is walking backwards now, and she's following him across the room, managing to land punches as the move and circle the perimeter of the room. She's never felt so strong. So in-control. Sandor misses a step, and his back lands against the wall. Sansa slams a final punch, and with a hard bang, his hand smacks against the wall.

She's breathing heavily. Her body is exhausted and running with an electric current at the same time. "Sorry," she breathes. "Sorry. Carried away."

Sandor lowers his hands. They're standing less than an inch from each other. Her head is just up to his chest, which is coated in a sheen off sweat. It feels strange to have Sandor backed against a wall. It feels good. He's staring at her with dark eyes, and her entire body feels like fire, and she knows that if she doesn't do something to quench the—

She leans forward and presses her lips against his chest. The skin is hot. Moist. She continues to move her mouth against the skin, placing slow kisses across his chest, hands at her side, itching to touch him in the same way. She moves even closer and then lets her fingers brush against the skin just over his sweatpants, and then she sweeps her mouth across one of his nipples.

That's when he groans. It's deep and low and arouses Sansa in way she didn't know was possible. She flecks her tongue across his nipple, and he does it again, and then he suddenly grabs her by her hair and yanks her head back.

"Stop playing games," he says. His eyes are burning.

"I'm not." Desire is flooding through her. It's never been like this before. She's never wanted someone so desperately. "I'm not," she repeats.

"You have no idea what you're doing."

Her hands are still brushing across his warm skin. She needs more. "Yes, I do."

"No you don't."

"Yes, I—"

And then he suddenly flips her around so that she's backed against the wall. His chest is crushed against hers, and his mouth is hot against her ear, and she can feel his desire hard against her stomach. "No, you don't," he growls. And then he bites the bottom of her earlobe, and then he moves down and sucks harshly against her neck, and his hands seem to be everywhere at once, gripping her thighs, rubbing against her arms, pushing through her hair.

He breaks off suddenly. He looks wild, crazed. "You don't want this."

But her own body is pulsing with desire, flooded with heat, and for the first time in her life, Sansa knows that she wants to do something for herself, that she can do this one thing for herself without thinking about the consequences for anyone else. She steps forward and tugs Sandor's sweatpants.

"Yes," she says. "I do."

A/N – Okay don't kill me for ending it here. I wasn't feeling the full-fledged sex scene for them. If enough of you guys insist, I'll add it later in a continuation or a flashback.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I promise that I'm 98% sure that I'll update again in the very near future : )