Page 26

It bursts out of me—louder, rawer than I meant, sharp with guilt and grit—but it lands. His expression cracks just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting the honesty behind the rage. For a second, something flickers—hurt, regret, something he masks too quickly—but I see it. And it makes my chest ache.

I lower my voice. "I know. Okay? I miscalculated. But I also found something real. There were signs someone had been using the place as some kind of front and recently. If we follow the money trail back…"

"We?"

His voice is dangerous now—low and taut, like a tripwire just waiting for the wrong move. It ripples through the air, darker than thunder, sharper than glass, and it sends a pulse of heat straight to my core. I hate how much it affects me, how sexy he is when he’s furious, how that quiet fury coils in my stomach like a live wire I don’t dare touch but can’t stop watching spark.

"Yes. We. Because I’m not stepping aside while you play hero. Sookie was my friend, and this is my research and my life."

His chest rises and falls in sharp bursts. Then, softer: "You have no idea what you’re up against."

I meet his stare. "Then show me. Don’t shove me out. Don’t lie to protect me. Show me."

Something in him fractures—a clean break from the fury that’s been grinding beneath his skin. Not gone, just transformed. It settles into something heavier, quieter. A vow made in silence. Not surrender. Not even compromise. But the moment when wrath hardens into unwavering resolve.

"You’re right. You can see things we can’t. You pulled a pattern together in days that my team’s been chasing for months."

I blink. Not at the words—but the tone. Respect. Admiration, even. I’m used to being underestimated, sidelined, treated like my ideas are a footnote at best. But Deacon? He looks at me like I matter—like what I see, what I know, carries weight. And damn if that doesn’t shake something loose in me I didn’t know was locked down. I’ve been dismissed, doubted, underestimated by men like him more times than I can count. But Deacon? He sees me. It hits harder than I expect, and I hate how much I want more of it.

He continues, voice low. "But the Reaper is real. This isn’t just hacking into someone’s tax shell. This is blood. And you are absolutely in his sights."

I swallow the knot rising in my throat. "So teach me how not to die."

He huffs something between a laugh and a growl. "That’s not how it works."

"Then make a new rule. Because I’m not stepping back."

His hand lifts, hesitating in the charged space between us—then falls, fingers curling into a fist at his side like he’s afraid touching me might detonate whatever fragile control he's clinging to. The silence between us buzzes, thick and electric, heavy with everything we want to say but can’t, everything that might tip us over the edge if either of us moves an inch closer.

Finally, he nods. Once. "Fine. But from now on, you stay with me. You don’t move without telling me first. And you never,evergo in alone."

I raise a brow. "So I’m allowed to breathe without permission, or...?"

"You’re allowed to give me a heart attack once a week. Max."

"Deal."

I expect him to pivot. To walk away. But instead, he steps closer, eyes locked on mine with an intensity that slides under my skin like silk over a blade. It’s the kind of look that pins me in place, all heat and warning, and my breath stutters—because whatever restraint he's holding onto is fraying at the edges, and some wild, reckless part of me wants to see it snap.

"You scared the hell out of me today."

The words are simple. Quiet. But they unravel me.

"Good," I say. But it comes out breathless.

He leans in close—so close I can feel the warmth of his breath skimming my lips, the tension between us a taut, invisible tether. His heat seeps into me, setting every nerve alight. But he doesn’t touch. Doesn’t kiss. Just hovers there, and it hits me like a wave—this fierce, aching awareness that he could claim me with a single breath, and yet he doesn’t. That restraint? Itsays more than any heated promise. It says he’s holding back not because he doesn’t want me, but because he does. And that—God—that shatters something brittle in my chest and makes the ache almost unbearable. letting the moment swell until it’s unbearable—thick, electric, and pulsing with everything we’re both holding back.

Then he pulls back, tension riding the line of his shoulders, jaw clenched like he's holding back more than just words. There’s a beat—too long to be casual—where his eyes flick to my mouth, then down the line of my throat, like he’s still warring with the instinct to claim and the need to protect. But instead of closing the distance again, he turns—deliberate, restrained—and resets the alarm with a sharp tap. The space between us hums, unresolved, the kind of silence that screams louder than any fight.

That’s when the feed flickers—a stuttering glitch across the screen like a heartbeat skipping a beat. The smooth roll of security footage jags, halts, then surges forward again with a fractured blur of pixels.

I catch it first. "Wait. Rewind."

The footage stutters, then clears, catching the figure mid-motion. The hooded intruder lingers longer than expected, like they're savoring the moment. Gloved fingers trace the doorframe with an eerie deliberation, almost reverent. Then, with practiced precision, they press a device no larger than a key fob beneath the eave, tucked just beside the security cam—deliberate, brazen, and unmistakably strategic.

Deacon swears, loud and vicious. "Tracking beacon. Maybe a jammer—short-range signal disruptor, likely blocking outgoing feeds and camera uploads. Which means we’ve been blind for who knows how long—and whoever did this was close enough to walk right up to the house and stay invisible while they tagged us. We’re blind and tagged."

My skin crawls—like invisible insects skittering under the surface, sharp and insistent, impossible to ignore. A cold sweat prickles the back of my neck, every instinct screaming that we’re not alone anymore. That we’ve been touched. Marked.