Page 28

"No promises," I mutter.

She pauses, mouth twitching. "Night, Deacon."

"Night, Sutton."

When the door to her bedroom clicks shut, I let out a slow breath and check my phone, thumb tightening around the edge like it might crack. My stomach knots as the screen lights up, pulse ticking hard behind my ears, the quiet suddenly too loud, the shadows pressed against the windows a little too still. Every instinct I’ve got is coiled tight, warning me the night isn’t done yet.

Sutton is officially on the Reaper’s radar—drawn into the crosshairs of a man who never misses. This isn’t just a warning. It’s a declaration. And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that he won’t stop until he’s either taken her… or I’ve stopped him first.

I head to the front window, lights off, letting my gaze sweep the street. Calm. Too calm. The kind of quiet that buzzes under your skin, like the air before a lightning strike. My instincts prickle.

The Reaper isn’t just efficient. He’s a ghost who leaves no trace—unless he wants you to find it. And this? This is a message, bold as a bullet casing on a doormat. He’s not just close—he’s watching, testing the wire for weakness.

By the time Gideon pulls up in his matte black Charger, I’m already at the front door, eyes scanning the darkness like it might blink. He steps out, nodding once, the weight of everything unspoken between us settling like an extra shadow on the street. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t need to. We’vedone this before—too many times, in too many places where silence spoke louder than orders.

"Anything?"

"Not yet," I say. "But he’s here. I can feel it."

"Then go," Gideon says. "I’ll hold the perimeter."

I slip out the back, my boots soundless on the steps, heart hammering low and steady in my chest. The alley behind her townhouse stretches long and empty, cloaked in the kind of silence that feels too deliberate—like something’s holding its breath. The air is dense with humidity and the faint ozone of distant storms. I inhale—and there it is.

A scent.

Not sweat. Not cologne. Not rot.

Darkness. Cold metal. Gun oil and grave earth.

My wolf rises like a wave inside me—hot and electric, prickling beneath my skin, rushing to the surface with a hunger that tastes like iron and thunder. The scent of her clings to the air behind me, a silent reminder of what I’m protecting—and what I’ll destroy to keep her safe. It’s not rage. It’s purpose. And it leaves no room for hesitation. Not wild, not unruly—but demanding.

I slip into the narrow cut between her townhouse and the neighbor’s garage, pulse thudding in time with the warning growl curling low in my throat. My fingers curl at my sides. My skin tightens. The night shivers around me.

And then the mist comes.

It curls up from the pavement, thick and silver, dancing with static, shards of color slicing through like broken glass catching moonlight. Thunder growls deep, rolling low beneath the hum of the alley. Lightning snaps across the air—not above, but within.

I close my eyes. There is no pain. No cracking bones. No tearing flesh. Just release—warm, liquid, and seductive. It slides over me like silk, melting the boundary between what I am andwhat I become. My pulse slows, then surges, as heat blooms beneath my skin. Every nerve lights up, a sensual burn, like a lover's touch drawn down my spine. It's not a fall. It's a surrender. A breathless plunge into something ancient, primal, and boundless—where instinct reigns and desire howls.

Heat floods my blood. My breath shudders out of me, a moan caught between agony and ecstasy, and I am nothing but muscle, hunger, and the echo of something feral waking beneath my skin. The mist envelops me, silken and relentless, threading through my limbs with a lover’s possessive grip, dragging me under like a riptide and rebuilding me from the inside out—bone to sinew, flesh to fur, man to myth.

When it clears, I am no longer a man.

I am instinct. I am predator.

I am wolf.

The world sharpens around me. Colors bloom into impossible clarity, edged in electricity. Sounds unravel like silk torn in slow motion—every layer distinct, rich, and raw. A mosquito hums ten yards away, its wings a whisper of friction. A rat scurries behind a drainpipe, nails clicking like a ticking clock. The wind tastes of asphalt, blood, and the copper promise of violence. But what I care about—what Ifeelwith every taut nerve and coiled sinew—is the fading trace of a man who has taken everything from me. The echo of his presence skims over my senses like a lover’s goodbye—bitter, intimate, unforgivable.

The Reaper has been here. Was Sutton only feet away while he watched from the dark? The thought slams into me like a blow, turning instinct into fury—pure, hot, and unrelenting. My muscles coil tight, claws biting into the pavement. A snarl tears from my throat, low and savage, vibrating through my ribs like the pulse of war drums. I see red—sharp, searing flashes behind my eyes—and it takes everything in me not to launch into the night and rip apart the silence until I find him. He was close. Toodamn close. And if he so much as breathed in her direction, I’ll make him bleed for every second she was under his gaze.

I track the scent to the edge of the alley, each step slow and deliberate, a silent vow etched into the ground beneath my paws. It slips through the shadows like a whisper laced with threat, curling around the fire escape, lingering with possessive arrogance on the lower window ledge of Sutton’s townhouse—herspace,hersanctuary. The trace coils there like a challenge, daring me to see how close he got. My lips curl in a soundless snarl. The scent doesn’t just vanish—it retreats, slinking into the street like a predator testing boundaries. He got close enough to taste her shadow. And that’s one breath too close.

Too damn close.

My lips peel back over sharp teeth. I move low to the ground, stalking the edge of the fence line, heart pounding with primal purpose. My paws are silent on the concrete. Every breath I take is a question, every step a vow.

You will not touch her.