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This time, I catch a flicker at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

We head out to the Range Rover where he puts his hand out waiting for the keys. For a second, I consider faking him out—just to see what he’d do. Maybe toss the keys over the roof or ask if alpha posturing is part of the Ranger uniform. But the look on his face shuts that down fast. I sigh and drop the keys into his palm, because while I may not like being bossed around, I’m not stupid. Short of trying to physically outmaneuver him, I don'tsee that I have much of a choice. I hand them to him and am then surprised when he follows me around to the passenger door and holds it open for me.

As the engine purrs to life, he smiles. "Almost as good as the sound of my Harley. Where do you want to eat?"

"This is your idea. I'm good with anything but Mexican."

"You don't like spicy food?"

"I love it. It's just the last time Sookie..." I have to catch my breath. This is the first time I've said her name out loud since she was killed.

Deacon reaches over and rests his hand on my thigh—it's intimate, but not sexual. "It'll get easier."

"What? When you catch him?"

He shakes his head. "No; when I kill him."

"You don't plan to arrest him and bring him to justice?"

"The bastard murdered my sister. When he faces justice, it’ll be mine."

I realize in that moment we have more in common than I might have thought. "Good."

The restaurant is quiet, tucked just off the strand, all warm lighting and exposed brick. The server does a double take when she sees Deacon, and I don’t blame her. He looks like he stepped out of a cover shoot for “Men Who Kill and Brood.”

He doesn’t bother with small talk. Orders steak, rare. Drinks black coffee. Watches the door like it owes him something. I order seafood pasta and a glass of white wine and pretend not to notice how often his gaze flicks back to me.

“You always this...tense?” I ask, giving him a slow, deliberate once-over. “Because your vibe screams ‘military sniper meets monk on a mission.’”

“You always this nosy?”

“You have no idea.”

There’s a beat, and then he leans in. “You drew him from memory. Most people couldn’t tell you what color shirt the killer wore.”

I shrug, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I remember details. It’s what I do.”

“That’s a gift,” he says, voice low. “Or a curse.”

I hold his gaze. “Sometimes both.”

We don’t speak much after that, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It hums, charged and heavy, full of things neither of us are quite ready to say. When the check comes, he takes it before I can blink.

“Chivalry isn’t dead, huh?” I ask, sliding into the passenger’s seat as we head back.

“No,” he says. “And it doesn’t ask permission first.”

The drive home is quiet, but not the uncomfortable kind. My fingers fidget in my lap, still tingling from the way his hand lingered on my thigh earlier. We pull into the neighborhood, the Range Rover humming low as we pass rows of tidy brick townhouses with porch lights flickering on one by one.

When we round the bend and my place comes into view, something sharp and cold slices through my chest.

"Stop," I say, voice low.

Deacon’s already slowing. "I see it."

He spots the door, jaw tightening. He kills the headlights as we approach, guiding the Range Rover into the driveway next door with calculated ease, with the engine barely making a sound. We coast to a halt, the Range Rover idling like a held breath.

From this angle, we both see it—my front door, slightly ajar. A sliver of black against the white trim. My stomach knots, dread rising like floodwater, enough to set every instinct screaming. The porch light flickers, casting a warped shadow across the threshold. From this angle, it looks like the house is wounded.Violated. Like it’s bracing for another blow. My stomach turns, and the chilled breath I drag in feels like it’s scraping against raw nerves.