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“Frank’s daughter?”

Rush gives me a look. “You know her?”

“I’ve heard of her. Quiet reputation. Forensic accountant. Worked a couple federal cases. Keeps her name out of headlines.”

“She’s not out of anything now. Her neighbor was murdered. And she saw the guy who did it.”

“Damn.”

Rush lowers his voice. “You know what that means.”

“She’s a target.”

He nods. “Which means you’re going to Galveston. Effective immediately.”

I push my plate away, appetite gone. “She the only witness?”

“The only one that matters.”

The Harley roars beneath me as I ride into Galveston, wind whipping at my face, the scent of seaweed and distant refineries mixing in the air. The roads are flatter here, the horizon wider—less shadowed than the bayous I grew up in, but no less haunted. Back home, the trees are thicker, the sky lower, and the wild has teeth. Galveston’s wild wears perfume and a smile you shouldn’t trust. I keep the throttle steady. Miles peel behind me like old skin.

I’ve been through Galveston more times than I can count—we’re stationed just outside it—but this ride’s different.

Because the last time I felt this raw, this rattled, I was riding backroads through Louisiana, helmet off, wind in my face, with nothing but rage and grief to keep me company. I was heading home to bury Verity—my sister, my anchor—and the silence that rode with me was the loudest damn thing I’ve ever heard. That trip carved something out of me I’ve never been able to fill back in.

We’d gone fishing—just the two of us—the last time I'd been on leave. She’d taken a break from court before the start of her big case. We caught nothing but catfish and sunburns. She brought that shitty pink cooler and called it her “mobile bar.” Every time I tried to cast my line, she’d hand me another canned cocktail and say, 'You’re on leave, soldier. Your missionis relaxation.' I told her she was going to get me court-martialed by the fish. She laughed so hard she nearly fell out of the boat.

She talked about starting her own firm. About how she wasn’t afraid of the cartel case. That she had protection. That the system worked.

I knew better. But I didn’t say it.

Flash forward. A quiet hallway. A body bag.

They let me see her face for three seconds before the zipper closed.

I decide to stop at the Devil's Den. They make a great Cajun blue-cheese burger and it's close to dinner time. I might as well get something to eat before getting started. I've got some contacts here. If the Reaper's been here, I might be able to pick up his trail.

The woman at the bar doesn’t belong here.

I know it the second I walk in. I ignore the buzzing in my head that has kicked up in intensity.

The Devil’s Den is the kind of place where desperate men come to make bad decisions, and where worse men come to make sure those poor decisions turn into something permanent. A hole-in-the-wall dive sitting on the edge of Galveston, it reeks of cheap whiskey, greasy food, and violence waiting to happen.

And yet, there she is. Perched on a cracked leather barstool, her shoulders squared like she’s daring someone to look at her the wrong way. A whiskey glass sits untouched in front of her, and her gaze flicks around the room like she’s memorizing faces, looking for something—or someone.

She’s got trouble written all over her, and my wolf is on high alert.

Not in the usual way, though. She’s not a cartel princess slumming it in the dark corners of hell, and she’s sure as hell not looking to pick up one of these lowlifes. She’s dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted jacket, and a ponytail that doesn’t do a damn thing to hide the sharp edge of her jawline.

She doesn’t belong here. And she knows it, but she’s not leaving.

I belly up to the bar and order a beer, keeping my posture loose, casual, even as my gut tightens. Because I know who she is. Who she has to be. Sutton Blake.

She's the daughter of a decorated officer. A good girl with bad luck. She's the witness to something she shouldn’t have seen. She’s also not supposed to be here.

We started tracking Hollister’s last remaining enforcers weeks ago—the Reaper is one of them. As long as any of them are left out there, Rush's mate might still be in danger. Hollister might be dead, but his reach lingers, his men still moving in the shadows, covering their tracks, settling old debts. Sutton’s name came up exactly once and only recently in our intel—just a blip in a report, a neighbor who noticed too much.

We'd been keeping a casual eye on her, but she'd gone to the cops after the murder of her neighbor and her friend. We had hoped she wouldn't stick her nose in places it didn’t belong, and we could keep her safe from a distance.