Page 16

Jesus.

I shove off the door and strip, flinging my clothes into the hamper like they’re to blame for my loss of self-control. The mirror mocks me—cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, mouth and nipples swollen. I look like a woman freshly ruined. Except I’m not. Not yet.

I step into the shower and crank the water hot, steam curling around me as I brace my palms against the tile.

“Damn him,” I whisper.

It should’ve felt like a power play. It should’ve pissed me off. But instead, it felt... elemental. Like he’d peeled something open in me I didn’t know was sealed shut. And now it’s open, gaping, pulsing with heat and want and worse—need.

I slide a hand down my stomach, skin slick with heat and need, fingers drifting lower with a breathless kind of urgency. My thighs part, not with hesitation but with aching, insistent want. I think of his hands—bigger, rougher, and sure in ways that promise ruin—and it’s like my body answers to his touch even in its absence.

One kiss and I’m undone? No. I’m scorched, unspooling under my own fingers with nothing but his name clawing at theback of my throat. I don’t do this—I don’t lose control like this. But Deacon’s changed the rules, and I’m not sure I recognize myself in the heat and hunger left behind. That scares me more than anything else. I shouldn't give in, but my body doesn't care. It’s not logic that drives me now, it’s hunger—dark, slick, and devastating. And in the silence of the steam and shadows, I let it take me.

I touch myself with practiced ease, but it’s not my hand I’m imagining. It’s Deacon’s. Rough. Sure. Demanding. It’s messed up—I know that—but there’s a thrill twined so tightly together with a certain amount of shame that I can’t pull them apart. I want him. I hate that I do. But wanting has never felt this sharp before—like I’m balanced on the edge of a knife, skin prickling with danger and desire. My breath catches as I press deeper, circling, coaxing, every nerve ending wired to that kiss. To the way he tasted. To the way his body pinned mine. To the sound of that low growl in his throat.

It builds fast. Too fast. My back bows off the wall, every muscle tight as a drawn wire. The orgasm hits like a live current—white-hot, electric, a violent flood of sensation that steals the breath from my lungs. I bite down on a gasp, teeth clenched hard to muffle the sound, as my body bucks in release, wave after blinding wave crashing through me. My knees give out and I slide down the tile, forehead pressed against the slick, cool ceramic, breath tearing from me in broken, helpless pants.

“Shit.”

I flip the tap to cold and let the water slam against my skin like ice daggers. It strips away the heat, the haze, the trembling aftermath still coiled low in my belly. I gasp, back arching from the shock, goosebumps erupting along every inch of me. Not punishment. Just control. A brutal, sobering jolt that reminds me who I am and what I won’t let him take—not unless I choose to give it.

By the time I dry off, wrap my hair in a towel, and pull on a sleep-soft tank top and shorts, I feel more like myself. Less molten, less undone. My skin still hums faintly from the cold water and everything that came before it, but the shiver has moved inward—quieter now, manageable.

I pad barefoot across the warm wood floor back into my bedroom, the towel tugging at my damp hair as I go. The scent of lavender from the body wash clings to me like a secret, and for a second, the stillness of the room feels almost sacred. I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed, the sheets cool against my thighs. The part of myself that isn’t a puddle of hormones and poor judgment gathers strength in that silence, breathing through the chaos, reclaiming ground one heartbeat at a time.

I grab my phone and stare at it for a moment, thumb hovering over Dad’s contact. I don’t want to worry him—not if he hasn’t already heard about Sookie's death and my involvement. But knowing my father, if word hasn’t reached him yet, it will by morning. Probably through one of his connections or because he checks the local reports before most people have had their coffee.

Still, I hesitate. It’s late. He’ll worry. And if he doesn’t already know, calling might light a fire I can’t put out. It’s funny how my dad always seems to know more than he lets on. Word always reaches him even if it isn’t from me or through official channels. I hate the thought of waking him, of letting the worry take hold too soon—but I hate the idea of him hearing it from someone else even more.

I settle on the edge of the bed and dial. It rings twice before Dad answers.

"Sutton, sweetheart. Everything okay?"

His voice always makes me feel steadier. It's been just the two of us for as long as I can remember—Mom died young, before I even started school, and Dad raised me on a mix of dryhumor, cold cases, tough love, and gentle resilience. He's not just my father. He's my constant, my anchor, the voice that pulls me back from the edge when the world tilts too far.

"Define okay. Someone broke into my house tonight. I’m fine, just… rattled."

"Jesus, baby girl. Are you safe now?"

"Yeah. There’s a Texas Ranger here—Deacon Winslow. Says he’s in charge of whatever this is."

There’s a pause. Then a low exhale. "Deacon Winslow is the real deal. He and his team are known for closing ranks and keeping people alive. If he’s there, you listen to him. Understand?"

"He’s also bossy, arrogant, and kissed me like he plans to own me. Which would be easier to scoff at if I hadn’t liked it a little too much—and if part of me didn’t already want to see what else he thinks he owns."

Silence.

"He what?"

I scrub a hand over my face, regretting the slip. "Never mind. It’s complicated." I don’t usually share this kind of thing, not even with Dad. But the words had just slipped out—proof of how much Deacon’s gotten under my skin. The fact that I said anything at all tells me exactly how off-balance I really am.

"Complicated or not, if Deacon Winslow says you’re in danger, you take him seriously. Maybe it would be better if you came home, Sutton. You can stay here until they get this sorted."

I glance around the bedroom—the mismatched lamps, the hand-thrown pottery vase filled with dried pussy willows and cattails, the quilt I found with Sookie on one of our antique binges.

"This is my home, Dad. I’m not leaving it."

Another pause. Then, more quietly, "Then promise me you’ll let that man do his job."