Page 17

I sigh. "Fine. I promise."

We hang up, and I stare at the phone a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing the edge like it might vibrate again with his voice. Then I set it down on the nightstand and exhale. My body still hums faintly—not just from the break in, but from the kiss and everything else. The storm inside me hasn’t settled; it’s just changed shape.

That’s when the knock comes. Sharp. Steady. A command wrapped in courtesy. The sound punches through the quiet, raising the hairs on my arms. It’s not loud, but it carries weight—a warning and a promise in one. My breath catches, the echo of the cold shower gone in an instant. Heat flashes through me like muscle memory. Deacon.

I jump a little, heart kicking like it forgot how to idle.

"What now?" I mutter, padding across the room.

I open the door a crack, and there he is—Deacon, filling the frame like he owns it. Arms folded, shirt untucked, jaw carved in tension. He shouldn’t look this good. Not at this hour. Not after the chaos and heat he stirred up inside me.

But my traitorous body doesn’t care. Heat pools low in my belly again, sharp, and insistent, and my breath hitches before I can stop it. The scent of leather and warm skin drifts in, and my knees actually go a little weak. I grip the edge of the door harder to ground myself. He looks like every bad decision I’ve ever fantasized about—grit, control, and slow-burning danger—all wrapped up in one maddeningly composed man. My breath catches, shallow and sharp, and my hand tightens instinctively on the doorknob, knuckles white with the effort not to let him see how easily he unravels me.

"The door stays open."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"It stays open so I can hear if anything happens."

"I’m not twelve."

"And yet I found you last night ignoring every safety protocol known to man. Humor me."

I consider slamming the door in his face. Instead, I leave it open and stalk back to the bed.

"Night, Ranger."

I climb into bed, cross-legged, and grab my laptop. The sheets are cool against my skin, a soft contrast to the simmering tension I still feel low in my belly. Work is safe. Work is order. Numbers make sense. They don’t smirk when they win an argument or smell like danger and sin. They don’t awaken something primal inside me or threaten to unravel years of carefully built composure.

Unlike Deacon, who walks through my life like a spark in a powder keg, work is a world I can master, control, and close with a keystroke. It doesn’t kiss you breathless or stalk through your home with lethal grace. Unlike Deacon Winslow—who’s all molten eyes, iron control, and maddening demands that somehow still sound like promises. I shove the thought of him aside and open a spreadsheet, willing the formulas to pull me back to a world I understand.

I pull up spreadsheets and bury myself in them. The tidy rows and logical formulas offer something I haven’t had all day—control. While Deacon prowls the edges of my sanity, unpredictable and all heat and instinct, this is my world. Here, there are rules. Equations balance. Money trails don’t lie. Unlike men. It’s late, but the glow of formulas and account flows keeps me grounded. My fingers fly, inputting data, adjusting equations. I almost forget the kiss. Almost.

Deacon checks on me twice. The first time, he knocks gently before stepping in, holding out a glass of water like it’s an excuse instead of a gesture. His eyes linger a second too long on my bare legs tucked beneath me, but he says nothing, just nods and leaves. The second time, there’s no pretense. He appears in thedoorway like a shadow taking shape, watching me from under hooded eyes, the kind that strip you down to secrets and skin. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stands there, quiet and coiled, before disappearing again like he was never there at all.

I don’t ask what he’s looking for. I already know.

And the worst part?

I want him to find it. Control. Surrender. Maybe both. I want to know what happens when I stop pretending I don’t feel this fire between us and let it burn.

CHAPTER 6

DEACON

The sound of Sutton’s fingers clicking against the keys is the last noise I hear before I leave her door cracked open the way I told her to and walk back down the hall. It stays with me, that rhythm. Sharp, determined. Like her.

I head for the kitchen, making a slow circuit of the house as I go. There’s something grounding about moving through her space, fixing what I can, imposing a sense of order where there was chaos. It calms the wolf in me, the part that needs to protect what’s vulnerable, to secure what’s mine—even if she doesn’t know she is yet.

Her townhouse smells like lavender, steel, and something else underneath—a warmth I can’t place. It scrapes something old and instinctive in my chest, something that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with desire. It’s not perfume. It’s not detergent. It’s her—a scent that pulls at memory and muscle, like fresh rain on hot pavement or the low burn of whiskey in winter. Familiar and foreign. Comforting and wild.

It hits harder the longer I stay. Maybe it’s just her. I check every window, every latch, noting which locks need tightening and where the old wood groans a little too loud when steppedon. I tweak her alarm system, hook it to a secondary backup, and install one of our remote monitoring feeds behind a recessed vent grille in the hallway. She won’t notice it. But I’ll know if anyone even thinks about coming back.

After that, I tidy up. No reason for her to wake up to broken things, to the chaos someone else forced into her sanctuary. It isn’t about aesthetics—though the way she’s curated this place says a lot. It’s about restoring what was taken: control, calm, the illusion of safety. Each repaired drawer, each wiped surface is a silent message—I’m here. I see what was done. And I won’t let it happen again. It’s about order. Dominance. Territory. Mine now.

By the time I finish cleaning the kitchen and reassembling a shattered drawer, I’m slick with sweat and wound tight. I scrub my hands at the sink, then dry them on the towel she has hanging from a rod with a little print that says, “Screw perfect. Aim for progress.”

I chuckle, a low sound in my chest. That sounds like her—scrappy, relentless, too damn smart for her own good. Even her towel’s got attitude. Of course it does.