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He’s already reaching behind his back when I turn to him, all tension and sharp focus, like a predator the second before it pounces. Even in the dark, his eyes are lit with something feral, a low-burning fire that speaks of violence barely restrained. My breath catches. I should be focused on the threat, the door, the possibility of an intruder—but all I can see is him. The way his body coils, the sharp edge of command permeates his body, the raw certainty. He radiates danger... and it draws me like a flame draws a moth with a death wish.

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice razor-sharp. He pulls a second weapon from an ankle holster, checks the chamber, and hands it to me, grip-first. "You know how to use it?"

I nod. "You travel with spares?"

“Always. Safety off. Keep your finger off the trigger until you mean it.”

I nod, heart thudding.

“If anyone comes near the car that isn’t me, you shoot. No warnings.”

“Understood,” I whisper.

And then he’s out, clicking the locks behind him as he moves up the walkway like a panther—graceful, coiled power in every step. His shoulders are broad beneath the leather of his jacket, and even now, with fear winding tight in my chest, I can’t stop the way my eyes track his body. There’s a precision to him, a lethal elegance, like a weapon that knows exactly what it’s meant to destroy. And protect.

I sit frozen. For exactly ten seconds. The gun is cool and foreign in my hand, but my pulse hammers like it knows what’s coming. I try to stay put. I really do. But every instinct I’ve ever trusted is yelling that I need to see for myself.

I unbuckle. Quiet. Deliberate. I slide out of the car, keeping low, keeping quiet. At some point during dinner—maybe when I kicked off my heels under the table—I never put them back on. Now, my bare feet whisper against the pavement, my senses stretching in every direction like antennae. Deacon is already halfway to the porch, his body one taut line of control and purpose.

I follow, drawn forward not by recklessness—but by the raw need to take back some piece of control. To see what they’ve done. To make it real before it all crumbles.

Inside my house is a mess. There are drawers pulled open, cushions scattered and in disarray. My favorite mug—a hand-thrown ceramic piece glazed in deep teal and gold, with a delicate crescent moon carved into the side—shattered on the kitchen floor. The sight of it punches the breath from my lungs, a physical blow I wasn’t braced for.

Sookie gave me that mug on the first anniversary of my moving in. She said it was 'just the right kind of weird for you, babe.' I’d used it every morning since, the rim molded perfectly to my lip, the weight of it grounding. Seeing it in shards makes the violation feel personal. Like whoever did this wasn’t just searching—they were taunting me. Like they knew exactly where to strike to make it hurt. I feel cracked wide open. Exposed. My blood runs cold.

Deacon grabs my arm. Hard. Even now—especially now—his touch sets something off inside me. It’s not just the strength of his grip, or the way his fingers wrap around my skin like a brand. It’s the way my body responds, unbidden and unforgiving, as if danger and desire are stitched from the same thread when it comes to him.

“Stay here, and this time I mean it. Corner of the kitchen. Back flat against the outside wall. Shoot if you have to.”

“You think they’re still here?”

“Don’t know yet.”

Then he’s gone. Moving like a shadow with purpose. Silent and lethal.

I don't stay. I follow. I tell myself it’s instinct, not recklessness. But the truth is, there’s a flicker of fear in my chest—sharp and urgent. What if he needs me? What if I’m just afraid to sit still and let someone else do the saving? My bare feet make no sound on the hardwood, breath caught in my throat as adrenaline surges through me. The smell of upturned dust and splintered wood hits my nose, sharp and wrong. Every instinct I have screams to stay put—but curiosity, reckless and bright, drags me forward.

Because I can’t help myself.

He checks the living room, then jerks his chin toward the stairs. I follow the tilt of his gaze.

“Stay behind me,” he murmurs, voice low and lethal. “Two steps back. No sound.”

I nod. The stairs creak under his weight, but mine are softer, my bare feet silent against the wood. He glances back once, just to make sure I’m there. I am—exactly where he told me to be.

Upstairs, he sweeps through each bedroom with surgical precision, closet doors thrown open, shower curtains yanked aside. No hesitation. No wasted steps. My heartbeat hammers, but his composure never breaks.

“Clear,” he finally says, lowering his weapon.

“Nothing’s missing,” I murmur. “But they were looking for something.”

He nods. “They were looking for leverage.”

“What kind of leverage do I have?”

His gaze sweeps over me. “The kind you don’t even know you’re carrying.”

I swallow hard. “We should call the cops.”