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“Now we prep for whatever the hell he’s got planned.”

Behind her, Cassidy and Maggie exchange a look, their eyes narrowing with awareness. Kari has gone utterly still, mug frozen midair as her nostrils flare. I see the ripple of tension run through her frame, shoulders squaring, gaze scanning the door. Good. They’re reading the air, reacting to the pressure prickling across their skin. Cassidy’s fingers twitch at her sides like she’s seconds from reaching for a weapon. With a quiet motion, Maggie repositions herself—weight even, one foot sliding back in preparation. Their instincts are on point—alert, sharpened, ready. Just as they should be.

I meet Cassidy’s eyes. “Get your gear. Same for the others. We hold fast and wait for Rush’s word.”

Cassidy gives me a crisp nod and turns, disappearing into the hallway with Maggie and Kari right behind her, their movements sharpening with the precision of warriors readyingfor battle. The air they leave in their wake is filled with the scent of adrenaline, resolve, and something fiercer—protective fire aimed in Sutton’s direction. I watch them go, a silent vow forming in my gut: whoever’s coming? They’ll regret ever thinking she was an easy mark.

Sutton's fingers wrap firmly around my wrist before I can turn to follow, her grip sudden and sure—an anchor, not a plea. It halts me mid-step, the warmth of her skin a jolt against the rising adrenaline surging in my blood.

“Deacon.”

My name on her lips is a tether that hauls me back from the edge. Chaos is my native language—war my constant companion—but hearing her say it? It digs under my skin, rips straight through my armor. She's not just a variable in my mission. She's the mission. And the idea of her in the Reaper’s sights turns that chaos into something sharp, personal, and deadly. Her grip is sudden and sure—an anchor, not a plea. It halts me mid-step, the warmth of her skin a jolt against the rising adrenaline surging in my blood.

“If something happens,” I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend, “you find one of them—Cassidy, Maggie, or Kari—and stay glued to them. No heroics. No disappearing acts. You move when they move. Understood?”

Her mouth tightens. I see the flicker of fight in her eyes—that fierce pride that hates being handled or ordered. It’s there in the slight tilt of her chin, the stubborn line of her jaw. But threading beneath it, glimmering just out of reach, is something quieter. Steadier. She doesn't like it, but she believes me. She trusts me.

“Understood,” she says quietly.

I cup her jaw, my thumb brushing slowly across her cheekbone, needing the contact more than I want to admit. Her skin is satin beneath my callused hand, and the warmth of her seeps straight into my bloodstream. For one impossible second,I let myself feel it all—the burn of fear, the raw edge of desire, the aching need to keep her safe. I want to memorize this moment, anchor it deep, because everything past it is war—and I don't know how many more of these I’ll get.

Her skin is warm—soft in a way that makes my chest ache and my blood rise. I lean closer, inhaling the subtle trace of citrus and salt on her skin. The contrast—the vulnerability of her softness against the brutal edge of the world we're bracing to meet—shreds whatever armor I have left. A primal presence stirs from deep within, restless and razor-edged, teeth bared, possessive and enraged at the thought of anyone laying a hand on her.

Sutton's not fragile, not by a long shot—but the thought of her breaking on my watch? That’s the kind of fear that carves itself into bone.

“I can’t lose you, Sutton. I can't lose you. Not now. Not while there's still breath in my body to protect you.”

She draws in a shaky breath, then releases it in a soft, trembling exhale that brushes the skin above my collar. Her fingers slide up, wrapping around my wrists with a grip that’s not just grounding—it’s a demand, a promise, a silent claim. Her touch sends a surge of heat down my spine, raw and electric. I feel the fierce flutter of her pulse beneath my touch, each beat syncing with mine, welding us together in a connection that scorches down to the marrow—raw, primal, unrelenting. Her scent curls around me—spice, salt, something uniquely her—and it roots me more firmly than any command ever could.

“Then don’t even think about charging off like some tragic hero. I swear, Deacon, if you pull that kind of stunt, I’ll drag you back by the ear myself.”

A ghost of a smile curves my mouth. “Not without you.”

The pounding of boots draws closer, heavy and unrelenting. Rush barrels into the room, tugging a tactical vest over his wornT-shirt with the precision of someone who’s done this more times than he can count. His gaze sweeps across the space like a scythe, hard and assessing, before locking on me with laser focus, the unspoken question clear in his flinty eyes.

“Briefing in the war room. Five minutes. Sutton too.”

Sutton arches a brow. “Me?”

“You’re part of this now,” Rush says simply. Then he’s gone again.

Sutton looks up at me. Her gaze sears into mine—burning bright, fierce. Not fear. Something deeper. A storm of resolve, defiance, and something that threatens to undo me. Her spine straightens like steel drawn tight, chin lifted in challenge, daring the world to come for her. And God help whatever does—because she’s not standing alone.

I’ll rip them apart, limb by limb, until there’s nothing left but blood in the dirt and a warning in the air.

“Guess I better grab my Glock,” she mutters.

As Sutton disappears into her room to gear up, I stay rooted in place, tension humming in my muscles like a live wire. My hand clenches reflexively, and I have to consciously flex and unfurl my fingers to release it. My gaze drifts toward the door she vanished behind, jaw tightening. Already my mind is drawing battle maps—pinpointing weak spots in our perimeter, calculating how fast I can get to her from any angle in the house. My breath comes slow and deliberate, the way it does before a fight—controlling the adrenaline rather than letting it control me. Every sound sharpens. Every shadow stretches longer. And every instinct I have screams one thing: prepare to kill.

When I finally turn, I head for the command center—a reinforced heart of the compound built like a fortress. Concrete walls lined with steel panels close in around me, the air humming with low static from dozens of active monitors. Each screen flickers with surveillance footage, digital maps, and real-time data. Gage sits forward, fingers flying over the keyboard as he marks potential breach points in urgent red.

Rush is already at the center table, braced on his elbows, calloused fingers tracing paths like a general plotting war. The weight in the room is palpable—like thunder about to crack open the sky. Every line on his face is drawn tight, his mouth a grim slash of focus. This is more than preparation now. It's the calm before blood is spilled.

Dalton leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, his expression carved from granite. The tension in his shoulders isn’t just readiness—it’s coiled aggression waiting for a target. Maggie enters, already dressed in tactical gear, her long braid tucked tight against the back of her vest. She nods at something Kari murmurs, but her gaze never stops scanning the room, calculating exits and threat vectors like a soldier reading a battlefield. Cassidy enters last, her boot falls crisp and deliberate. Her pistol rides high on her hip, her jaw locked, her eyes scanning every corner like she expects danger to crawl out of the shadows any second.

“Reaper’s been within striking distance for hours,” Gage says, bringing up the map overlay. “This is no longer recon. He’s planning his attack.”

I absorb the info, then speak. “Has he seen the security layers? Cameras? Drones?”