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He shakes his head. “No. This is ours now. You, Sookie’s murder, the Reaper—they’re all tied up in something bigger. You call Galveston PD, best-case scenario, it slows us down. Worst case? It tips them off.”

I look around my ruined kitchen. At the shattered pieces of a life I was still trying to rebuild. “So what now?”

He takes a step toward me. Then another—measured, deliberate, like a wolf stalking something it already knows belongs to him. The air thickens with intent, and my pulse kicks like it’s trying to outrun the look in his eyes. Every inch he closes steals a breath from my lungs, until the only thing I can taste is him—danger and desire wrapped in heat and authority.

“Now,” he says, voice rough, “you do what I say.”

The heat between us snaps into focus, sudden and sharp. My breath hitches, and something low in my stomach twists, hot and aching. He’s too close—close enough that I can smell leather, salt, and something darker underneath, something that makes me forget my own name. I should step back. I don’t. Instead, I tilt my chin up, defiant, and breathless, caught between warning and want.

“And if I don’t?” I whisper.

His eyes flash. “Then I tie you to that damn bed and keep you alive anyway." His voice is all grit and gravel, but there’s something else under it too—a promise. Not of control, but protection. Fierce, unrelenting, and absolute.

My breath stutters. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s been pulled taut, like I’m standing on the edge of something wild and irreversible. There’s a fire in his eyes—dangerous, magnetic—and it’s pulling me closer, even when every rational part of me screams to look away.

I should slap him. I should scream. I should run. My fingers twitch at my side like they want to do all three at once, but I can’t move. He’s too close, too steady, too damn sure—and I’mnot sure of anything except the wildfire spreading through my system.

Instead, I say, “You’d have to catch me first.”

His smile is dark and slow and dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he says, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, “I already did.”

And in that heartbeat, I know: nothing about this is going to be safe.

Or simple.

Because when a man like Deacon Winslow decides you’re his to protect, there’s no walking away.

And deep down, God help me—I don’t want to.

CHAPTER 4

DEACON

She brushes past me, still simmering with tension so thick it could burn through steel. Her body stays taut as a drawn wire, and every step she takes feels like it's pulling that pressure tighter. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t need to. The air between us is already charged, heavy with what we didn’t let happen.

I head over to the neighbor's driveway and move the Range Rover to Sutton's drive. Once I'm back inside, I lock the door behind me and take stock of the wreckage again, my mind ticking through what it means. The break-in, the message, the way they rifled through everything and took nothing.

She stands in the kitchen, arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s holding her center together with sheer will. Her nails dig into her elbows, knuckles white, like if she lets go, everything inside might spill out. There’s a tremble in her shoulders she doesn’t want me to see. But I see it anyway. I see the fight not to crumble. The need to be strong. The raw ache she won’t voice, not even now. And something in me knots tighter, knowing she shouldn’t have to carry this alone.

"I’m going to double check the second floor," I say, voice low but firm. "Make sure nothing’s changed. Stay put."

She gives me a look like she might ignore me just to make a point, but after a beat, she nods. I head up first, rechecking the second floor with quick, practiced sweeps—closets, corners, under the beds—making sure I didn’t miss anything.

I descend the stairs, each step echoing with the weight of the tension still hanging in the air. When I reach the bottom, she’s right there in the kitchen where I left her—motionless, arms still tight around herself like she’s holding together what little calm she has left. The silence between us isn’t relief. It’s a pressure chamber, sealed and swelling, waiting for the next spark to ignite it. Her gaze meets mine, steady and sharp, like she’s daring me to question her composure.

And I do.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

She straightens. "I’m not one of your men, Ranger. I don’t take orders from you."

I move in close, not touching, but close enough that she has to tilt her chin up to keep my gaze. Her scent hits me hard—warm, sharp, citrus and something sweeter underneath. Infuriating. Irresistible.

"You’re not one of my team," I growl, low and steady, "but you are in danger. That means what happens to you is my problem."

Her eyes narrow. "That sounds like your jurisdiction, not mine."