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“He’s real. And he’s not just a hitman. He’s cleanup. If he’s in Galveston, someone big still has influence. We believe thatyou having seen him well enough to make the sketch means you being alive is a problem for him.”

She leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “So I’m bait.”

“No. You’re leverage. Bait’s disposable.”

She lifts a brow. “Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel safe.”

I hold her gaze. “I’m not here to make you feel anything. I’m here to keep you breathing.”

Her voice softens slightly. “And if I say I don’t want protection?”

“Too bad. You’ve got it anyway.”

She studies me, and for a second, everything stills. Then she tips her bottle to mine and mutters, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

I don’t smile. Not even a twitch. My gut tightens like a live wire, already bracing for the first hit—because when the Reaper shows up, blood follows. Always.

CHAPTER 3

SUTTON

The wind off the Gulf always carries a little grit, a little bite—but it’s not the salt or sand that grates. It’s him. Deacon Winslow, looming in my entryway like an unsanctioned storm warning.

He didn’t ask. He just told me I had protection. And apparently, he’s it. Because of course he is—full marks for testosterone-fueled chivalry. Next thing you know, he’ll be beating his chest and dragging me off by my ponytail. My gut knots—not with fear exactly, but with the sharp twist of unease that comes when someone starts making decisions for me. I’ve spent years clawing back my autonomy, and now it’s being steamrolled by a man with a badge and a jaw carved out of granite.

“I’m taking you to dinner,” he says, like it’s already decided.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a request or a command?”

He steps further inside, arms folded. “You haven’t eaten. You’re running on caffeine and fury. That doesn’t cut it. You need fuel.”

“Deacon, I’ve survived longer days with less.”

“Not with a target on your back.”

I huff, crossing my arms in return. “Fine. But I’m driving.”

He chuckles. “Wrong again.”

I follow his line of sight through the window. That’s when I see it—his Harley parked in the driveway, matte black and built like a beast.

“You want to take me to dinner,” I say slowly, “on that?”

“Unless you’re scared of a little wind in your hair... or is it you're afraid to wrap your legs around me?”

I can feel the blush sweeping up my neck and cheeks. I narrow my eyes. “I’m not scared of anything.”

“Good. Grab your helmet.”

"I don't have a helmet and I'm not riding on that thing. You can either ride in the Range Rover or follow me, and by ride I mean in the passenger seat."

He chuckles. The sound is low and seductive and I can feel heat curling in my belly. "I drive. I don't care if we take the Harley or your Range Rover. I always drive."

“You always order women around?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

He doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. That would make this easier, and nothing about this man is easy. And maybe, stupidly, I want him to smile—just once—so I know there’s a man under all that steel and storm. “Pretty much, especially when they’re being hunted by paid assassins.”

“That’s such a sexist answer.”