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"It’s over," I say quietly.

He nods. "For now."

He sets the glass down with a quiet clink, his eyes never leaving mine. In one fluid motion, he gathers me against him, the heat of his bare chest branding my skin through the thin cotton of my shirt. His fingers weave through my hair, firm but reverent, angling my mouth to his. When he kisses me, it’s not soft or tentative—it’s possession, worship, a claiming so deep it steals the breath from my lungs. His lips demand everything, coaxing a low moan from my throat as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss until the world narrows to this: his taste, his hands, the relentless, glorious way he devours me like I’m already his and always have been.

When he breaks away, he whispers against my lips, "You’re mine, Sutton. And I'll raze every shadow and silence every threat before I let anything steal you from me."

My heart stumbles, then settles into a rhythm that echoes his. "You’re mine too, Deacon. So if there’s fire, it burns only with my permission."

His grin is wicked. "Then say it."

I laugh, but it breaks into a gasp as he lifts me in his arms and carries me inside.

The night stretches out before us—soft sheets, warm skin, love made slow and fierce. And when I fall asleep, it’s not to nightmares. It’s to the sound of Deacon’s heart beating beneath my cheek.

DALTON

Kari’s Historic Victorian Cottage

East End Historic District

Galveston, Texas

Two Months Later

The house looks like it fell out of a damn storybook—if that storybook had been rewritten by a woman who drank black coffee, trusted no one, and slept with a stun gun under her pillow.

A pale-blue Victorian, squat and stubborn in the middle of the East End, complete with gingerbread trim and a wraparound porch that’s seen better decades. Vines crawl up the columns like they’re trying to reclaim it, but the windows gleam clean, and the old brass knocker’s been polished to a shine. A wind chime made of spoons, bolts, and crystal pendants tinkles from the eaves. Loud enough to startle. Pretty enough to distract. Exactly like her.

I mount the steps, noting the porch swing piled with books and a crocheted throw, the kind of soft touch she’d deny caring about.

The door swings open and there she is—Kari Bonham.

Barefoot, coffee mug in one hand, tablet in the other, wearing one of those oversized T-shirts that hangs just long enough to be decent and just short enough to drive a man out of his mind. It’s got a cartoon wolf on it howling at the moon, which would be funny if it didn’t make my pulse spike.

It should. I can’t let it because she’s Gideon’s kid sister. Because the cartel and a deadly assassin have a target on her back and she refuses to acknowledge or care about that. Because she feels like she’s on a mission. Because I’ve been ordered to keep her alive while she finishes digging through the digital landmine Sookie left behind.

And maybe because I’ve been dreaming about that mouth for years.

Inside, the air smells like rain-damp pages and vanilla candles burned down to their wicks. Wood floors groan under my boots, and every room’s cluttered in organized chaos—laptops open, cords snaking under rugs, corkboards exploding with notes and thumbtacks, romance paperbacks shoved between volumes of forensic journals and cartel histories.

The dining room’s been converted into her war room. Red string arcs across maps. A printed-out spreadsheet bleeds highlighter ink. In the center, her laptop glows like a lighthouse in a storm.

And in the middle of it all—barefoot, braless, fierce as hell—is Kari Bonham. A woman who makes this house feel like a fortress and a battlefield all at once.

Her eyes lock on mine. Sharp. Annoyed. Blue—like her brother’s I remind myself. Her brother, Gideon, one of my best friends.

“I told you, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter.”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest, letting a slow grin tug at the corner of my mouth. “Good thing I’m not a babysitter. I’m a bodyguard with boundary issues.”

“Yeah?” she shoots back, arching one eyebrow. “Well, I’m a grown-ass woman with pepper spray, a taser in every room, and a loaded gun in the nightstand by my bed. You can leave.”

I don’t move. “Not happening.”

She sighs, setting her coffee down. “You gonna follow me around all day?”

“If I have to.”