Page 9

9

CHASE

I pace back and forth, from the waiting room to the lobby, and back again.

What the hell just happened? Honor Deveraux didn’t just stroll into my life—she stormed in, kicked the door down, and made herself at home.

She’s feisty. She’s drop-dead gorgeous. Damn it, even her photo had me hooked before I could admit it to myself. But now? Now she’s in surgery, and all I can think about is how she clung to my hand, pleading, vulnerable, like I was the only person she had in the world.

It’s messing with my head. No—my heart. Red Mark doesn’t forbid getting emotionally invested in a case, within reason. But this?

Saving a kid in danger, keeping my comrades alive—that’s where my heart’s always been. But this feels… new. Like my heart sprouted a twin. And that twin doesn’t play by the old rules of Chase Samson.

Women have always been a revolving door in my life—mutual agreements, nothing heavy. A ‘see where it goes’ kind of thing. No grand declarations, no messy breakups. Clean. Simple. But Honor? She’s rewritten the damn script. The deeper I dive into this case—when I should be proving that attachment isn’t my thing—the harder it is to untangle myself from her. It’s like my new, cloned heart has grown Velcro and latched onto her.

Honor Deveraux, the woman I’m supposed to bring to justice, has become the one person I can’t seem to let go of. And the crazy thing? I’m not sure I want to.

I arrive at the lobby—for what feels like the hundredth time. My nerves are shot, my mind spinning, and I’m about to start pacing again when a man stumbles in, almost tripping over his own desperation.

“Honor Deveraux. She’s my wife. Is she here?”

Heads turn, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hold on, Mr. Deveraux,” the receptionist says.

My skin tightens, and every muscle coils like I’m ready to spring. That’s her husband? That sure isn’t Damon Stone!

She lied to me?

“I’m Charlie Deveraux,” he says, breathless but forceful. “I came from out of town, and she’s not home. It’s her due date today!”

“Ms. Deveraux—I mean, Mrs. Deveraux—is still in surgery,” the receptionist replies carefully.

“Surgery? Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” His voice rises, teetering on panic.

“I can’t say, Mr. Deveraux. I’m sorry. A nurse will take you to the waiting room, and we’ll update you as soon as we can.”

“She’s my wife! And it’s my son we’re talking about!” He starts grimacing, hopeless.

“I understand, Mr. Deveraux,” the receptionist soothes. “I’m sure the team is doing everything they can.”

A nurse appears and guides him toward the maternity waiting room. I trail behind, keeping a safe distance, lingering just outside. But the longer I watch him, the more I see what no one else in this hospital seems to notice—not the receptionist, not the nurse, not anyone. It’s in the way he carries himself, the way his presence sucks the air out of the room.

The minute the nurse leaves, his demeanor shifts—like a mask slipping off. Concerned husband and father-to-be? Gone. What’s left is pure Stoneborn.

He pulls out his phone and speaks into it, his voice low but cutting. “Stone, I found her. Bozeman Hospital. No, no sign of Oakley. But I’ll look around.” He pauses, glancing around as if expecting the boy to leap out of the walls. Then, quieter but no less sinister: “You’ll get your son back.” A longer pause. “Yeah, of course, your sons.” He draws out the ‘s,’ making it clear—Stone is reminding him that Oakley and this newborn are both assets to claim.

When Mira threatened to pull me off the case, she dropped a hint about checking hospitals—likely because of Honor’s pregnancy. Maybe Damon’s taken her lead, sending one of his idle Circle men to play the part of a father, fishing for information hospital by hospital until he finds her. How many times has this man pulled off this charade?

When he hangs up, he moves. But I’ve been tailing men like him for years—predictable to a fault. He starts scanning the usual places Oakley might be: the cafeteria, the vending machines, restrooms, anywhere a kid might wander off to.

When his search turns up nothing, he shifts gears, slipping on his ‘desperate dad’ mask once again. He approaches a nurse, his voice urgent but controlled.

“He was here a minute ago. Have you seen him?”

The nurse shakes her head, her tone polite but edged with irritation. “No. But it’s not uncommon for children to wander off to other parts of the hospital. This is why we encourage parents to keep an eye on them. I’ll call security.”

He glances at his phone, his expression lighting up as if he’s just received a miracle. “Ah, it’s him. Looks like he’s in the general ward—just texted me.”

The nurse doesn’t push further, though she looks slightly annoyed. “All right. If you need help, let us know.”

I have to hand it to him—it’s a solid lie, delivered with just enough conviction to pass. But I’ve been in this game too long to fall for it. I keep my distance, shadowing him as he moves through the hall. His pattern doesn’t change. He’s circling, searching.

And then, just as I expect, he veers toward the restroom. Perfect.

I slip in behind him, the door clicking shut just as I enter. He’s already observing the only two people inside, sizing them up. But he doesn’t get the chance to notice me.

Once everyone else is out, I close the distance. In one motion my hand snakes around his neck, locking him in a textbook sleeper hold, the kind I learned back in my Judo days. My arm tightens, pressing against the carotid arteries on either side of his neck, cutting off blood flow to the brain.

“Don’t fight it,” I mutter, keeping my grip firm but controlled. “Just take a nap.”

He thrashes, his hands clawing at my forearm, but I know the signs. The struggle is instinctive but futile. My stance is solid, my weight perfectly balanced—one leg forward, the other braced. It’s the kind of technique you don’t just learn; you master it through years of practice. His knees buckle in less than ten seconds, and I guide him to the floor like dead weight, ensuring he doesn’t make a sound.

Once he’s out cold, I take a moment to breathe, keeping an ear out for anyone entering the restroom. The last thing I need is a Good Samaritan walking in to use the facilities and finding me hovering over an unconscious man.

I haul the man into the nearest cubicle, propping him up like he’s passed out drunk.

I slip out of the restroom, scanning the hallway, searching for something to dump the guy back where he came from. This part of the building is busier than the maternity ward—nurses and doctors moving with purpose, too preoccupied with their tasks to give me a second glance.

Milking my luck while it lasts, I duck into an empty room, finding a neatly made bed with a blanket folded at the foot. Without hesitation, I grab it. Near the nurse’s station, I spot a line of wheelchairs, some unfolded and ready to use, others stacked neatly. I take a folded one, tucking it under my arm like it’s just another piece of hospital paperwork.

Back in the restroom, I wrestle the unconscious man into the chair. His head slumps forward as I drape the blanket over him, adjusting it around his shoulders. From a distance, he could easily pass for a patient being wheeled out by a concerned family member.

I keep my pace steady, calm. Hospitals thrive on routine, and I make myself part of the scenery. A nurse glances at me, but her focus shifts quickly as another patient calls out for help. Timing is everything, and I keep moving.

Once outside, I hail a cab, wheeling the chair to the curb.

The driver eyes me warily as I hoist the man into the backseat. “Uh, is he okay?”

I slap a stack of cash—five hundred dollars—into his hand. “He’s fine. Just had some minor surgery. Needs a quiet ride home. He’ll live.”

The driver hesitates but doesn’t argue. Soon enough, the cab pulls away, my unwanted passenger en route to Big Sky. Return to sender.

As the taillights disappear, I head back into the maternity ward.

At the front desk, I speak quickly but with controlled urgency. “I need to talk to a manager. It’s about Ms. Deveraux.”

The receptionist raises an eyebrow but nods, leading me to a nurse.

“Nurse Carrington,” I say, reading her name tag. Charge Nurse – Maternity Ward. Exactly who I need.

“Yes?” she says, her voice tinged with suspicion.

“My name is Chase Samson, from Red Mark Rescue & Protect,” I say, flashing my badge. “I’m Ms. Deveraux’s bodyguard.”

Her brow furrows. “How can I help you, Mr. Samson?”

“If the President’s daughter were giving birth, what would you do?”

She blinks, momentarily thrown. “I’m sorry, what?”

“That man who claims to be her husband? He’s not. Ms. Deveraux is in danger,” I press.

Disbelief etches plainly on her face, as if she’s questioning my sanity.

“Please, nurse,” I lower my voice. “This is critical.”

She straightens. “I’ll notify Bozeman PD.”

There goes my plan to avoid the police. But I nod, conceding the point. “That’s fine. But in the meantime, I need Ms. Deveraux and her baby moved to a private room.”

“That’s not an issue. We have suites specifically for mothers and newborns.”

Well, this is easier than I thought. I had this notion that babies in maternity wards were still stashed in those glass-box nurseries like they’re part of some adorable assembly line. Guess that’s my ignorance—or obliviousness to maternity stuff. The last newborn I visited was Comet’s son, and the kid just appeared, all cozy with mom and dad. Where he came from or where they stashed him after? Total mystery. Babies might as well come with magician assistants for all I know.

“Can we make it a room near a nurse’s station?” I add. “Somewhere with constant staff presence. They need to be safe.”

“They will be, Mr. Samson,” she says, though her tone leaves me unconvinced.

“And I need to guard them at all times.”

She hesitates, then gives a brisk nod. “I’ll arrange it after I confirm with the authorities. And once Ms. Deveraux is awake, we’ll verify everything you’ve told me. If she doesn’t want you here, you’ll be removed.”

I nod my head. She might not hesitate to remove me, but I won’t hesitate to fight for what’s necessary.

While waiting for the nurse, I ask passing staff, trying to find out if Honor is safe and how the baby is doing, but no one gives me a straight answer. Instead, I catch sight of two Bozeman PD officers heading my way.

“You’re Mr. Chase Samson?” one of them asks.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Sergeant Moran,” he announces, gesturing to his partner. “This is Officer Delaney. We need to ask you a few questions about Ms. Deveraux. You’re her, um, bodyguard, you said?”

“I need to speak to Captain Freeman,” I reply, keeping my tone firm.

“You’re talking to us, Mr. Samson,” Moran counters, unimpressed.

“I’m with Red Mark Rescue & Protect,” I say, pulling out my ID. “When there’s an incident involving us, we liaise directly with Captain Freeman. If you don’t mind.” I don’t wait for a response and call Freeman. “Captain. Chase Samson here.”

Moran and Delaney exchange a look, their postures stiffening slightly. They know I’m not bluffing.

“Samson,” Freeman says over the line. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a case, Captain. Your officers are here with me, and I need your discretion on this one. It’s sensitive.”

Freeman sighs. “Discretion doesn’t come cheap, Samson. What’s this about?”

“Damon Stone. You familiar with him?”

“Unfortunately, yes. What’s the connection?”

“A woman named Honor Deveraux is tangled up with him. She’s in the hospital right now, in labor. The baby’s his.”

“Red Mark branching into maternity care now?” he scoffs. “What’s the tie to missing kids this time?”

“Stone’s oldest son ran off to be with Ms. Deveraux. He’s been reported missing, but the boy is safe and in our custody. Right now, my priority is Ms. Deveraux and her baby. I need to stay with them, Captain. Your officers are welcome to patrol the hospital, but I need this handled quietly.”

“And you don’t think my men can keep her safe?”

I pause for a beat, then say, “It’s complicated. This isn’t just about keeping her safe—it’s about preventing Stone from escalating the situation. Please, Captain, let us do what we do best. Red Mark always hands the criminals over to you, and you know we’ve never broken that promise.”

Freeman blows out a breath, the weight of the situation clear in his voice. “Fine, Samson.”

“Thank you, captain.”

“You’re lucky I still owe you for the McSweeney case.” He pauses, like he’s stacking chips on a high-stakes table. “Listen, Major Crimes is gunning for Damon Stone hard. Word is, he’s picked up on the 80/20 rule. The Stoneborn Circle’s been playing it smart, only going after the safest buyers—the big spenders who bring in the most cash. The streets have gone quiet. No one’s willing to risk crossing the Circle. They know better.”

“I’ll let you know if I’ve got something,” I assure him.

“All right. Let me talk to my guys.”

I pass the phone to Sergeant Moran. He takes it with a sharp nod, saying only, “Yes, sir,” before handing it back to me. I watch as he and his partner exchange a few muttered words before walking off. Whatever Captain Freeman told them worked. For now.

With the officers gone, I stride down the hall, scanning for Nurse Carrington. She’s mid-conversation with a colleague. When she notices me, she wraps it up and walks over.

“We’ve provided Ms. Deveraux with a private room on the third floor,” she says briskly. “Come with me.”

“Is she okay?” I ask, the tension in my voice giving me away despite my effort to sound composed.

“She’s okay.”

“And the baby?” I probably sound like the imposter dad I’ve just gotten rid of, but my desperation is real. I need to know.

“Mother and baby are okay. That’s all I can say,” she replies, her tone professional.

Yeah, yeah. Of course, I’m just the bodyguard. They’re not obligated to tell me a damn thing. But the questions won’t stop hammering at me. What did Honor name him? Will I get to hold him?

One thing I know for sure—Honor’s going to be a mama bear. The kind who could scare off grizzlies and still pack a diaper bag like a pro. But even the toughest need someone in their corner, especially after bringing a baby into the world. Damon? I can’t picture him ever calling her “Hon” or “Honey” without it dripping with some degrading tone.

And me? What would I call her?

Honey’s too mild for her. But even with that rugged edge, I’m sure there’s sweetness buried deep—though she hasn’t shown it yet. Like a huckleberry, maybe.

Shit.

Ms. Deveraux. That’s all I’ll ever call her.