Page 6

Back home, the unease settles into something heavier. Like fog in my chest. I pour a glass of wine, then don’t drink it. I pace. I sketch again. I check the locks. Then double-check.

Sookie’s murder isn’t random, and I'm not done asking questions.

Earlier today, before the sketch, before the visit to the station, I did what I always do when something feels wrong—I followed the money. I couldn't help myself. It's muscle memory at this point. I pulled up Sookie's financials. Just a quick peek,nothing official, nothing that'd set off alarms. We’d helped each other with budgeting more than once, so I still had access.

And there it was. Multiple charges—large ones—made at a place called the Devil’s Den. A name like that doesn’t scream yoga studio. It wasn’t Sookie’s style. Not the amount. Not the frequency. Not the fact that they started a few weeks ago and ramped up fast. Something was going on.

Maybe she was meeting someone. Maybe she got pulled into something without realizing it. Either way, it seems a glass of wine in a place I’ve never been before might be in order.

CHAPTER 2

DEACON

Dawn is just breaking when I stretch my limbs, the earth cool beneath my paws. The wilderness surrounding Team W's headquarters isn’t completely untouched, but it’s wild enough—marshy air, the distant hiss of waves, and trees that creak like they’re whispering old secrets.

I run through it like I belong here, but I don’t—not really. Not like I did back in the Mississippi River Delta, where I was born. Back home, the land’s got a different rhythm—thicker air, deeper mud, and a kind of ancient wildness that sinks into your bones. Here, the ground is drier, the salt more brittle, the wind sharper. It doesn’t feel like home. But my wolf adapts. He always does. My wolf doesn’t think. He senses. He tastes the salt in the air, the soft pulse of birds fluttering just beyond reach, the scent of raccoon, deer, and oil-soaked wood.

The wind brushes through my coat as I tear through low brush, over fallen logs, across the broken shell of a forgotten dune. There’s freedom in this skin. No command structure. No orders. Just instinct and motion.

But eventually, I feel the tug of time. My legs slow, my senses tighten, and the sharpness of instinct begins to blur at the edges. The call back to my human form is quiet but relentless—a gravitypulling at my bones, reminding me I can’t stay wild forever. My wolf resists it, snarls against the transition. But I’ve learned to listen when the world starts tilting back toward responsibility. I head back to the ranch and move to the outdoor shower. The ground is soft, accepting, and I let the change come.

Mist coils around me like breath from the earth. Thunder echoes somewhere distant, deep, and hollow. Light splits the air in jagged flashes of color as the change takes hold. My body reforms in the heart of the mist—no pain, just pressure and heat, like being poured back into flesh.

And then I’m standing naked under a bleeding sky.

I head into the outdoor shower behind the barn and crank the water cold. It blasts across my shoulders, down my spine. My breath hisses through my teeth. There’s a kind of reset in it—like scrubbing away the beast and everything he picked up along the run.

By the time I’m dry, I’ve pulled on jeans and boots. Shirtless, I make my way up the steps and push open the back door into the kitchen.

I sniff the air. Chili cheese cornbread. Gideon has been busy. It burns the hell out of the roof of my mouth as I take a large bite out of the piece I cut. I don't care. The heat gives me something to focus on—something real—because the quiet in this house always feels like it's waiting to be broken. Something's coming. I can feel it pressing at the back of my skull, just out of reach. I'm halfway through my second beer, legs stretched under the farmhouse-style kitchen table at Team W headquarters, when I hear the front door slam.

Heavy boots. Rush.

He doesn't knock, doesn't call out—just moves through the house like a storm on a schedule. I glance up as he walks in, expression like granite and eyes darker than usual.

“Hope that’s not the last of the cornbread,” he mutters, but he's not reaching for a plate.

Instead, he slaps a piece of paper down in front of me. I wipe my hand on my jeans and look.

A sketch. Clean lines. Intense eyes. Mole near the jaw. Scar near the temple. My stomach clenches. It's him. No doubt. After all this time chasing shadows and whispers, the bastard finally has a face again. And it feels like someone just dragged a straight razor down my spine. I didn’t realize how much I needed this until right now.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask, voice low.

“Galveston PD,” Rush says. “Came through an unofficial channel. One of Frank Blake’s contacts.”

I stare at the sketch. The pencil work is sharp. Confident. No guesswork. Whoever drew this saw him up close.

And I know that face. I’ve been chasing it across six states for five years.

The Reaper.

Rush leans his hip against the counter, arms crossed. “She gave it to Detective Wilson. Got brushed off. Sketch is already in the wind.”

“She?”

He nods. “Witness. Civilian. Sutton Blake.”

I go still.