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I guess not. She's already gone to the cops, and I suspect the Devil's Den isn't on the list of her usual haunts. Yet, here she is, parked in the middle of a cartel place of business, probably looking for a man who would snap her neck before she had time to scream.

I exhale through my nose, tapping my knuckles against the bottle in my hand. A slow beat. Calculating.

How the hell do I play this? If I walk up to her and tell her to leave, she’ll dig in deeper. I’ve seen the type—determined, guilt-ridden, too damn stubborn for their own good.

But if I let her stay? I glance toward the back of the bar. A group of men sit huddled in a dark booth, their voices low,their body language tense. I don’t need enhanced senses to know they’re watching her too.

I curse under my breath. Too late. She’s already made an impression.

Sutton moves, pulling out her phone and typing something, then tucking it away. Her fingers tap against the bar, restless. She’s waiting for something... or someone.

My jaw ticks. Time to move. I push away from the bar, making my way toward her, keeping my steps measured, my approach calculated. I don’t know what she’s expecting, but she sure as hell isn’t expecting me.

I lean in just enough to invade her space, just enough to make her stiffen. Good. That means she’s paying attention.

“You’re in the wrong bar, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice low enough that only she hears.

She turns her head slowly, her hazel eyes sharp, assessing. Not scared—curious.

“You don’t even know what I’m looking for,” she says, her tone even.

I let out a rough chuckle, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not gonna find it here.”

Her lips curve into something that isn’t quite a grin but isn’t not one either. “You don’t know me.”

I adjust my posture, letting her feel the heat of my presence, letting her understand that I’m not just some asshole at a bar.

“Oh, but I do.” I tilt my head, letting my gaze flicker over her, slow, deliberate. “Sutton Blake. Good girl who's developing a bad habit of getting into things that aren’t her business.”

Her breath hitches. Gotcha.

But she recovers fast. She narrows her eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

I grin. “I’m the guy who’s going to keep you alive if you listen.”

Her fingers flex on the bar. “And if I don’t?”

I step even closer, my voice dropping into something darker, something final.

“Then, sweetheart, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

She exhales slowly, but she doesn’t look away and doesn’t back down.

And damn it all to hell, I know right then and there—this woman is going to be a problem.

A big one.

I follow her out of the Devil’s Den, close enough to cover her if things go sideways. She doesn’t look back as she crosses the lot, keys already in hand, shoulders squared like she dares anyone to follow.

Smart woman. Stupid brave.

She climbs into a black Range Rover. The door closes with a solid thunk, and I stand there in the dark, arms crossed, watching the headlights flare to life.

She pauses. Just for a second. Then she pulls out and drives away, taillights vanishing into the Galveston night. I exhale and head to my Harley.

I leave the Devil’s Den behind her, the rumble of my motorcycle low and steady as I wind through the outskirts of Galveston. The air changes as I ride—less grit, more salt, a breeze off the water that cools the edge of my tension but doesn’t erase it. I take back roads, sticking to the shadows, letting instinct guide me more than memory. It’s nearly dark when I pull into her neighborhood. I find a place to hide my Harley and bunk down for the night.

I keep an eye on the neighborhood all through the following morning. Nothing exceptional to note. I pay close attention to her townhouse—third one down, end unit, all brick with sharp white trim and black shutters. No gnome in the flower bed. Instead, there’s a hand-carved statue of a howling wolf on one side of the front steps, and a dragon curled in the other corner, wings folded like it's guarding something precious. Hand-crafted wind chimes hang from the porch beam, soft and low, almost melodic in the breeze.