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He watches me carefully, like I might bolt. And for a second, I almost do—except I’m too rooted, too curious, too damn determined to walk away now. I want the truth, regardless of how much it might hurt or scare the shit out of me.

I walk past him, back through the door, Deacon’s clothes still in my arms. The fabric is warm from my grip, the familiar scent of him—smoke, cedar, something untamed—clinging to the folds. It sinks into me, a reminder of everything I can’t explain but refuse to ignore. I pause, fingers tightening around the bundle, then exhale and set it gently on the back of the couch like laying down a piece of him.

My steps turn sharper as I cross to my laptop. If no one’s going to give me the truth, then I’ll dig until I find it. Secrets don’t stay buried forever. I’ve never needed permission to follow the facts, and I’m sure as hell not waiting now. Not when the clues are this loud, this deliberate, and damn near begging to be uncovered.

It starts slow. Mythology, urban legends, local folklore. Tales of ancient curses and cursed bloodlines. Skinwalkers, tricksters, men who shift beneath the moonlight. But none of it fits. No demons, no vampires, no swamp cryptids account for military-grade operatives vanishing into the dark barefoot and leaving behind paw prints the size of dinner plates.

And yet, the stories echo. They whisper truths buried under centuries of fear and fantasy. Something primal. Something hidden. Something that walks in two skins and serves a purpose older than orders and badges.

Then I stumble across it…Shifters. Creatures that can change from man to beast and back again.

My fingers freeze over the trackpad. The word slams into me like a body blow—hard, fast, and impossible to ignore. My pulsespikes, breath catching in my throat as if the air’s turned to glass. The edges of the word cut deep—shifter. My mind scrambles to reject it, but my body already believes. Heat coils low in my belly, a flush rising along my chest, equal parts fear, and fascination. Not myth. Not fiction. Not anymore. Not when I’ve traced his paw print with my own damn hand.

There's nothing in reputable scientific journals, but tucked inside romance novels and paranormal blogs. Stories of those individuals who become beasts. Of protective instincts, heightened senses, moonlight transformations. Some of it’s trash, but some of it… some of it feels like they were writing about Deacon.

About them—Team W.

I skim faster, piecing together the patterns. Wolves. Pack structure. Loyalty to the point of obsession. Territorial aggression. And the idea that a mate isn’t just someone you love—it’s someone you claim.

The breath freezes in my lungs. Could it be real?

The idea is insane. Ludicrous, but so are paw prints. Wolves are rare in Texas if not extinct, and yet those prints could be nothing else.

I stare at the screen, one hand curled around a mug of coffee I forgot I made. My heartbeat thuds in my ears, part fear, part adrenaline, and more than a little thrill. If this is real—if he’s not just a man but something more—then everything changes.

And I don’t know if I’m terrified… or intrigued. There’s a wild electricity sparking beneath my skin now, a current that hums low and fierce, like it’s been awakened by something ancient and irrevocable—a force that doesn’t feel entirely mine but isn’t unfamiliar either. The idea that Deacon might not just be a man but something older, wilder, sets my thoughts spinning in a hundred directions at once. It should scare the hell out of me. Maybe it does. But deep beneath the uncertainty is a pull I can’tshake—raw, electric, magnetic. And that? That might be the most terrifying part of all.

The back door creaks open. There’s a subtle charge in the air, a weight that announces him before he says a word. My grip tightens on the coffee mug, knuckles whitening. I don’t look up. Not yet. Let him walk through it. Let him close the distance, let the silence stretch until the truth has no room left to hide.

Let him see I know. Let him try to deny it with that unreadable face and those shadowed eyes, because now I’ve seen too much—and I’m not backing down. Let him feel the heat behind my silence, the challenge laced in every breath I take. If he thinks I’ll look away, pretend this isn’t real, he’s wrong. I’m not a woman who runs from truth—I chase it. And right now, the truth has teeth and eyes that see too much. Let him lie. Let him try. I’ll still be standing.

Let’s see what happens now—because I’m done waiting, done pretending this is anything close to normal. The world just tilted on its axis, and I want the truth, even if it shatters everything I thought I understood. Even if it breaks the rules of reality I’ve clung to like a life raft. I can feel it now—that pull toward the unknown, toward him. The wild in my blood answering something I can’t name yet. Let the lies burn. Let the truth come teeth and claws and fury. I won’t flinch. Let him walk through that door and face me. I’m ready.

CHAPTER 13

DEACON

The early morning sun cuts through the last threads of fog as I step through the side gate. I pause for a second, scanning the patio instinctively. My senses are still tuned to the hunt—ears straining, nose catching the sharp tang of coffee and the faint metallic echo of dried blood from hours before.

It’s not fear that tugs at me—it’s the instinct to protect, to be certain. My eyes scan the rooftop edges and the alley beyond the fence, senses sharpening like drawn steel. A slight alteration in the breeze carries with it nothing but salt and dew, but still, I can't shake the sense that something’s waiting. Watching. My muscles stay coiled, every nerve alive with that hunter’s edge, the one that whispers: not yet. The danger isn’t gone. It’s only crouched in the dark, waiting to strike again.

Gideon’s sitting in one of the patio chairs, a mug of coffee in one hand, my jeans and boots on the table beside him. The morning sun filters through the slats of the fence, casting long shadows across the cracked stone patio. There’s no railing, just uneven stone warmed by the rising light and an herb pot Sutton keeps by the back door—its leaves brushing his elbow like a sentinel. He looks relaxed, but I know better. Underneath thatlazy sprawl is a soldier on high alert, tracking every sound, every change in the wind, just like I am.

“You’re late,” he says, not looking up. He doesn’t even look at me. “Figured if I didn't meet you out here, you’d come in through the back buck naked and scare the neighbors.”

I grunt, grabbing the jeans. “You’re just lucky there aren’t more neighbors around. I’d have walked in bare-assed without blinking.”

“Pretty sure the HOA doesn’t cover sunrise streaking.”

I tug on the jeans and boots. “Appreciate the delivery. Could’ve just left ‘em under the bush,” I mutter as I step up.

“I appreciate the discretion—it’s not usually your strong suit. You find what you were looking for?”

I nod once. “The Reaper’s been here. Close enough to bleed.”

Gideon straightens. “He make contact?”

“Not directly. But he left a mark in the alley. A few drops of blood. Fresh. Deliberate.”