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CHASE SAMSON

Bozeman, Montana – present day

I give my hair one last swipe, then sprint out to meet my Red Mark brother, Huxley Cometti.

He leans against the car and lets out a theatrical whistle. “Well, don’t you look sharp. New suit? Told ya you didn’t need me to go shopping. You’ve got style—when you try.”

“Can we move?” I snap, yanking the car door open. “We’re late.”

“ You tell me, Mr. Fashionably-Late.” He slides into the passenger seat, throwing me a grin. “I take it last night went well? Is someone still in your bed right now? C’mon, don’t hold out on me.”

I groan, jamming the keys into the ignition. “Hardly. I was late because I spilled coffee on my tie, thanks for asking.”

The man I usually call ‘Comet’ or ‘Hux’ bursts into laughter. “Of course you did.”

“For your information, last night was basically the first day of kindergarten—but worse. I was man number seventeen, Hux. Seventeen. I talked to six women, and I’m pretty sure not one of them thought I was their type.”

Hux continues laughing. “Come on, you’re every woman’s type. Did you at least drop the SEAL card? Or the part where you rescue missing kids? That’s dating gold.”

“We didn’t even get that far.”

“Hey, maybe those women were the intellectual type—not easily swayed by good looks. Because let’s be honest, Chase, you should’ve gotten at least two proposals based on your face alone.”

“Wow. Thanks for acknowledging I’m handsome,” I deadpan. “I think I was too straightforward.”

“You? Straightforward? How?”

“I told them I wasn’t looking for anything serious. Just testing the waters, you know? Apparently, that’s a crime now. Whatever happened to modern women being all open-minded and go-with-the-flow?”

“Oh, Chase.” Hux shakes his head, sympathy written all over his face.

“Dating didn’t use to be this hard,” I lament.

He scoffs. “So, no one slept in your bed, huh?”

“Not unless you count me,” I mutter.

“Pathetic,” he says with an exaggerated shake of his head. “What’d I tell you? You should’ve used my ‘dog at the vet’ story. Works every time.”

I roll my eyes as we pull up to Red Mark’s shiny new Bozeman HQ.

‘Late’ is a relative term, of course. The bosses aren’t even here yet. Being late, even by my own made-up standards, grates on me. Head of Ops for Red Mark doesn’t do late.

We head inside, and I make another sweep of the place, checking that everything’s in order. No scuffs, no loose ends, no excuses.

Hux trails behind me, snickering. “You’re worse than my old drill instructor, you know that? Relax, Chase Bear. It’s not like Sam and Mark are gonna pull out white gloves and start checking for dust.”

“Dust won’t kill you. Being unprepared might,” I fire back.

Hux shrugs. “Fair enough.”

The moment Sam Kelleher and Mark Connor step in, it’s like a shift in the air. These guys don’t just walk into a room. They own it. Sam’s rocking a crisp navy-blue suit, all sharp lines and quiet confidence. Mark’s in charcoal gray, every bit as commanding but with a hint of edge.

“You two lost?” Hux asks, leaning casually against the wall. “This isn’t the boardroom.”

Sam gives him a look, cool and calm. “We are the boardroom.”

Mark smirks. “You should take notes, Comet.”

“Welcome, gents,” I say, as if kicking off a ceremony. We’re keeping it low key, considering how busy we are. “Behold, the fruit of your hard work.”

Sam’s gaze sweeps the HQ, taking in the high ceilings, exposed beams, modular gear walls, and the full-on tactical paradise we’ve built here. His whistle is low, impressed but understated. “Damn. Chase, you took this from a concept to this . Hell, this feels better than Helena.”

“It better,” I reply, leaning into the moment. “Investors didn’t write those checks for ‘almost good enough.’”

Mark steps forward, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “This is the dream, Chase. The one Sam and I had years ago. Took blood, sweat, and a whole lot of convincing to make Helena a reality. But this,” he gestures broadly to the space around us, “is the payoff. The second jewel in the crown.”

The truth is, he’s right. Helena was built on Sam and Mark’s grit, their ability to hustle, and their knack for making people believe in their vision. Standing here now, I can feel it—the pride, the sweat, the weight of what it took to get here.

“So your sailing days are definitely over, yeah?” Hux says. “There’s no turning back now.”

“My mother pretty much owns Santa Sophia,” I say of my yacht—took me around the world that beauty. Now it’s docked in San Diego, as mother moved there after father died, while I stay put in Bozeman.

Hux nods toward the climbing walls at the far end. “But tell me we can break that in after lunch.”

Sam raises a brow. “What’s wrong with now?”

Mark smirks, catching Sam’s tone. “We’re leaving for DC in an hour, remember? Suits and sweat don’t mix. Just sayin’.”

Before anyone can react, in strides a sharp-edged figure—the newest addition to the Red Mark family, Ethan Connor. Young, scrappy, and brimming with potential.

Ethan isn’t some random rookie—I’ve spent over six months training him. He slides his ever-present sunglasses up, revealing those youthful eyes that some people foolishly underestimate. It’s why he leans on the eyewear—to add a layer of intimidation. He’s only twenty-three, but anyone who doesn’t take him seriously is making a dangerous mistake. Sunglasses or not, Ethan is lethal.

Hux, unusually quiet, looks at me with a face I rarely see. “Wish I could be part of the Bozeman team, your partner for life. But hey, Ethan’s lucky to have you.”

I give my partner—former partner—a quick hug, gripping tighter than I mean to. “You’re gonna make me cry,” I joke, but the words stick in my throat.

“Don’t you start going all mushy on me!” Hux teases, though he is emotional too.

Throwing an arm around Ethan’s shoulders, I yank him into a bro-hug. “This guy’s gonna crush it here. He’s already part-SEAL, part-Spiderman. Skills off the charts. You should’ve seen him last week—hit the bullseye from fifty yards, no scope.”

Mark narrows his eyes, giving Ethan his best dad-level glare. “And he listens to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan answers, standing straighter than I’ve ever seen.

“Relax, Mark,” Sam says, chuckling. “Chase has got him.”

I clap Ethan on the back. He’s got the moves, the brains, and most importantly, the heart. He’s been through hell and come out stronger. He’s one of us now.

Mark’s expression shifts, almost as if he’s plucked the thought straight from my mind. He’s a man who rarely shows his hand, but that look right there? Pure, unmistakable proud papa.

Everyone at Red Mark has their reason for joining. Mine? It reaches back to my teenage years—a tether of guilt that’s held me fast, no matter how far I’ve tried to run. It’s my own untold truth, yet it’s the driving force behind everything I do.

Meanwhile, Sam’s gaze lingers on the glowing mission displays before he and Mark head off to inspect the armory. Their footsteps fade down the hallway just as I spot movement near the reception desk—a woman pacing, her every step taut with urgency.

No receptionist yet, and someone’s already wandering in unannounced. I really need to start that hiring spree.

I break into a jog toward her.

“Chase Samson?” she asks, her tone unsettlingly familiar, like we’re old friends catching up. But there’s an edge to it, like she’s used to owning every room she steps into.

“I’m him,” I reply, forcing calm into my voice even as tension knots in my chest. Then her face registers, and it’s like the air’s been sucked from the room.

Mira Stone. Damon Stone’s wife. The man who destroyed me, who turned my life into a waking nightmare.

The past slams into me. Kalispell. A little girl, her ridiculous Canada T-shirt soaked in her mother’s blood. I never learned her name, where she ended up, or if she even survived. But the image never left me. None of us deserved what happened. Least of all, her.

“Shit! It is you,” Mira says, her eyes narrowing as she studies me like a puzzle she’s reluctant to solve. “Chase Samson. I thought the name rang a bell, but I didn’t recognize you from your website photo.”

Her frown deepens, her lips curling with faint amusement as if she’s sizing me up. “Then again, the last time I saw you, I was still a virgin.”

“How can I help, Mrs. Stone?” I ask, keeping my tone professional. I’m damn sure I don’t want her elaborating the last time we saw each other. My memories of her are hazy at best, but I know we crossed paths just days before I made the decision to leave the Circle for good.

Her smirk vanishes in an instant, replaced by a cold glare. “A woman kidnapped my son.”

The words hit me. Whoever Mira is, a mother never deserves to lose her child. I straighten, gesturing toward one of the meeting rooms. “Please, come this way.”

As I lead her, Ethan steps forward, his curiosity practically radiating off him. I catch the movement and stop him with a quick gesture. “Head upstairs with your dad, buddy. I’ll handle this.”

Ethan hesitates, lowering his voice as he leans in. “You know her?”

“Yeah,” I say shortly.

“Isn’t this, like, a conflict of interest?”

Smart kid. Too smart, sometimes.

“My only interest is helping her,” I reply firmly, locking eyes with him. “Now go. Remember, I’m your boss.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue, trailing after Mark and Sam with a glance over his shoulder.

As I push the door to the meeting room open, Mira strides in ahead of me, her heels clicking like a countdown. She doesn’t bother thanking me. Of course she doesn’t. Women like Mira don’t say thank you. They demand results.

And I have a sinking feeling this is just the beginning of whatever storm she’s about to drag me into.

Mira’s eyes sweep the room, her gaze lingering just long enough to convey approval. “You’ve done well for yourself, Chase,” she says, her tone hovering between admiration and surprise. “I heard Red Mark is the best.”

“So, your son. What’s his name?” I steer the conversation back.

“Oakley. Oakley Stone.”

“It sounds like you know who took him?”

Her expression hardens, and she leans forward. “Damon’s mistress. His favorite. She’s pregnant.”

Anguish, resentment—not the typical emotions I expect from parents of missing children. Where’s the worry? The fear?

But people react differently, so I remind myself to keep an open mind.

She continues, “One son of Damon isn’t enough. She decided she wanted mine too.”

The tangled web of the Stoneborn Circle, Damon’s twisted empire, is rearing its head again. Back when I was caught in it, his father ran the show. But their succession plan clearly worked. The machine keeps turning, just as ruthless, just as dark. It’s the world I clawed my way out of, fought tooth and nail to escape. And yet, here it is, pulling me back.

“Damon’s been looking for her,” she continues. “But I’ll give her credit—none of the Circle has found her. How hard is it to track down a pregnant woman running with a thirteen-year-old boy?”

Apparently, very hard, I think. Whoever she is, she’s either exceptionally resourceful, desperately reckless, or both.

“What’s her name?”

“Honor. Honor Deveraux.”

She slides a photo across the table.

I pick it up.

The woman’s face is mostly hidden by her hair as she looks down, but something about the image stirs me. It’s unexpected. Like simplicity, like honesty. It’s not the bright yellow dress or her auburn hair, windswept and untamed. It’s the movement captured in the shot: her hand resting protectively on her swelling belly, her smile so candid I can almost hear the moment unfold.

“I need more than this,” I say, placing the photo down. “Do you have anything that shows her face?”

“I thought you were an expert,” she counters. “Can’t you figure it out from that photo?”

“I’m not a forensic artist, Mrs. Stone.”

“Fine!” she snaps, swiping through the photo gallery on her phone. “I just don’t like looking at her eyes. But there might be a few Damon took—like he didn’t have his own phone. Oh, here.” She thrusts the phone in my direction.

The woman on the screen isn’t what I expected from the first photo. The same shy smile is there, but her eyes—those eyes—are something else entirely. They’re impossibly deep, the kind that could make someone like Mira Stone hate looking at them. There’s a quiet defiance in her expression, a fierceness that speaks of a lifetime of battles she’s not ready to lose.

“She’s pretty, I know,” Mira sneers. “But don’t be fooled by those green eyes.”

“How far along is she?”

“How the fuck should I know when Damon knocked her up?”

I tilt my head, holding her gaze, pressing her to cut the attitude and give me a real answer.

“I don’t know,” she exhales. “Last trimester, for sure, but I couldn’t tell you exactly. But she’s not that big yet.”

I glance at the photo again. “Will you send this to me?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

“Of course.”

“And your son?” I add, handing her phone back. “Do you have a recent picture?”

Mira hesitates, her fingers hovering over her designer bag before pulling out a worn photo. “This is him when he was seven,” she says. “He still looks the same—just taller. He doesn’t like photos anymore.”

Something doesn’t sit right, but I push the thought aside. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last week,” she replies curtly.

“Did you witness the kidnapping?”

“No.”

“And what makes you think Ms. Deveraux is responsible?”

Her nails tap once against the table. “They both disappeared.”

That earlier comment tugs at me. Damon’s been looking for her. Not them. Why single her out?

“You said your husband has been looking for her. How long?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“So Ms. Deveraux disappeared first?”

She sighs. “Fine! She was gone way before Oakley. But I know it’s her—I don’t need proof. That’s mother’s instinct talking.”

Mother’s instinct. Thin at best, but if I push my bias aside, maybe it carries some weight. Trusting her, though—that’ll take time.

“Does your husband know your son is missing?”

Her gaze drops. “What do you think?”

He doesn’t. The question is whether Damon’s unaware out of indifference—or because Mira’s too afraid of his wrath to tell him.

“Does your husband know you’re here?” I press.

She smirks. “Why are you so concerned about him, Chase?”

“I need to talk to him,” I say.

“Is it true his father favored you over him? Your name comes up often—but never in a flattering way.”

I give her a small smile, letting her know those details don’t matter.

She adds, “I mean, he’s an only child, right? You’re not some bastard brother or hidden family secret, are you?”

Hell no. Damon might’ve treated me like a little brother back when we were close, but since Kalispell, everything’s changed.

“Does he know you’re here, Mrs. Stone?”

“Not yet,” she admits with a casual shrug. “And maybe he never needs to, if you work fast enough. He’s away. You find Oakley, I bring him home, and no one else has to know.”

My first case as head of Red Mark Bozeman, and it’s already a knotted web of pasts I’d rather avoid.

At Red Mark, the ethos is to lead with compassion. We deal with people—innocent children and the parents who love them. They’re not just cases, and we’re not law enforcement. Letting your heart get involved isn’t forbidden. It’s inevitable. But the trick is knowing how far to let it in before it clouds your judgment.

At the end of the day, a mother has lost her son. Whatever Mira’s motives or Damon’s darkness, there’s a boy out there who needs to be found.

But before I can help him, I need to figure out where Honor Deveraux is.