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"You get eyes on him?"

"Not yet. But chatter says he’s back."

"I want a location. A timestamp. Anything that pins him."

"Understood. I’ll stay close."

I hang up, tension winding tighter through my shoulders, coiling through every muscle like barbed wire. My jaw flexes, teeth grinding against the growl trying to claw free. The Reaper’s back. That means the hunt’s about to start—and this time, thestakes are higher. Because now, it’s not just a mission. It’s personal—the kind of personal that lives in my blood and sets my teeth on edge. The Reaper’s not just a threat to her safety. He’s a threat to what I’ve already marked as mine. And if he comes anywhere near Sutton again, he won’t walk away. He won’t crawl. He won’t even bleed. He’ll vanish because I’ll erase him from this earth like he never existed.

The Reaper’s back. Which means we’re on borrowed time. And if the chatter’s right—if he's even sniffing around Galveston again—then Sutton Blake didn’t just get his attention. She became his next target. A witness who lived. A threat he can’t afford. And I’ll be damned if I let him lay a finger on her.

I go back inside, check the locks, and make one last sweep through the house. Upstairs, her door’s still cracked. She’s still sleeping, chest rising slow and even. I let myself look at her a second longer than I should, then settle into a chair just outside her room. I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes.

Not to rest... to wait.

Because the wolf in me knows what the man won’t admit yet—the scent of her on the sheets, the echo of her voice in the walls, the way her presence settles something raw and restless in my chest. She's not just under my protection. She's under my skin.

What I’m guarding isn’t just a witness. She’s my fated mate. And if the Reaper’s even thinking about getting close, he’s about to find out exactly what it means to hunt something a wolf has already claimed.

CHAPTER 7

SUTTON

Iwake to the scent of coffee and something else—something warm and indulgent, like cinnamon and browned butter, the kind of smell that wraps around you like a memory of Sunday mornings with Mom before everything fell apart. It’s the scent of safety and loss all tangled together, and it makes my chest ache in ways I don’t have words for. It doesn’t belong to my fridge or pantry. I blink against the morning light and squint at the nightstand.

My laptop’s closed and sitting neatly where I didn’t leave it. A jolt of something electric hums through me—shock, warmth, and a sharp edge of vulnerability I don’t know what to do with. He didn’t just notice. He cared enough to act on it. The blanket’s pulled up over my shoulders, tucked with the kind of deliberate care I haven’t felt in a long time.

There’s a moment—still, suspended—where I just stare. It’s not just tidy. It’s personal—like someone knew what mattered to me, what details would make me feel seen. It hits like déjà vu and a warning all at once, unsettling in how accurate it is, as if Deacon’s peeled back a layer I didn’t even know I was wearing. Like someone mapped the contours of my life while I slept. The realization slams into my chest like a freight train. Deacon.

Of course it was Deacon. A slow throb starts at the base of my neck, crawling down my spine as I stare at the tidy arrangement he left behind. The way he tucks blankets, the exact placement of my laptop—he touched my space with care. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. It hits somewhere deep, somewhere raw, and for a breathless second, I don’t know if I want to scream, or curl into that sensation and never move again.

I sit up, fingers curling into the sheets. There’s something strangely intimate about being cared for without asking. It’s not something I’ve ever had—not since Mom died when I was still in pigtails and it was just me and Dad, both of us learning how to survive grief in our own stubborn ways. I got good at pretending I didn’t need anything. At doing everything myself. So when someone steps in without being asked... it rattles me. Not coddled. Not babied. Just… watched over. It knots something low in my belly, and I hate that it doesn’t feel threatening. I hate even more how much it does.

I swing my legs out of bed, the wood floor cool against my bare feet, and pad over to the dresser. I pull on a pair of black jeans, snug and worn-in, then a soft, slouchy tee that slides over my skin like a second thought. Something casual. Something comfortable. Something that says I’m fine when I’m not. Casual armor. I scoop up my laptop, fingers tightening around it like a shield, take a breath to settle the nerves buzzing under my skin, and head downstairs—each step feeling heavier than the last, like I’m already walking toward something I won’t be able to undo.

The smell hits me full force as I turn the corner into the kitchen—coffee, bacon, eggs, maybe even French toast? It’s the same heady aroma that pulled me from sleep upstairs—decadent and familiar, like something just out of the oven whispering promises in the morning light. My stomach growls on cue.

Deacon stands at the stove, bare forearms flexing with each movement like he's sculpting something out of heat and muscle. The sight hits me like a wave—an intimate punch to the gut, a collision of memory and hunger that makes my pulse lurch.

It calls up the ache of long-buried mornings, the safety I pretended not to need, and the longing I haven’t dared name until now—until him. An unexpected memory of watching a man cook breakfast the morning after my mom’s funeral, when Dad had tried to fill the silence with pancakes and burnt bacon. This feels nothing like that. This feels dangerous, intimate, like he’s imprinting on my space with every easy, confident motion. as he flips something in the skillet with practiced ease.

His t-shirt clings to the muscles in his back like it was painted on, the fabric following every sculpted line like it knows it’s got a front-row seat to sin. He’s barefoot—barefoot—in my kitchen, like this is normal, like he belongs here. The sight of him, so easy in my space, so utterly male and capable, makes something twist behind my ribs—tight and hot and almost painful. My breath catches, low and sharp, as my body hums in response. It’s not just attraction. It’s gravity.

I swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t turn around. Just says, “You always watch people from the doorway, or is that special for me?”

My breath catches. He knew I was there.

“Depends,” I say, voice husky. “Do you always show up in a painted on t-shirt and jeans just begging to be devoured, or is this just for me?”

He glances over his shoulder, and that slow, devastating grin spreads across his mouth. “Only when I want to be caught.”

I step forward. Just one pace. Then another.

“You’re cooking?” I ask, trying to sound unaffected, even as my pulse hammers between my thighs.

He sets the spoon down and turns, leaning back against the counter. “Figured I’d make you breakfast.”