Page 14

DEACON

I stay by the front window, every sense tuned to the dark. Nothing stirs. No footsteps, no flicker of movement, no scent sharp enough to chase—just the heavy silence of a predator gone to ground. But I don’t relax. I can’t. Not when I know what’s circling her.

Eventually, I step away and rejoin her inside, masking the storm behind my eyes with a calm she doesn’t question. She’s already set the table. I recognize the effort. The offering.

Supper is quiet, but not in the way it used to be—back when silence meant distance, a kind of cold, polite detachment I carried like a second skin.

This silence feels heavier, more intimate—like it’s full of words we’re not ready to say, the static of what’s been building between us humming just beneath the surface.

Like something is building between us, waiting to be named.

Sutton fills the space with small movements—the tap of her fork, the soft swish of her iced tea glass against the coaster, the click of her tongue when she disagrees with something I say.

She’s trying not to look at me like I’m already halfway out the door.

I pretend not to notice. Let her have her pride. We both need the armor tonight.

She made lemon pepper chicken and a salad laced with blackberries and goat cheese.

It tastes like summer and defiance—bright lemon, cracked pepper, the tang of something that bites back.

The heat of it lingers, like sun on bare skin or the echo of a well-thrown slap.

Like a woman who might be scared but refuses to cower.

The kitchen smells faintly of roasted lemon and cracked pepper, the kind of comforting scent that lingers in the air like a memory—warm, stubborn, and unmistakably hers.

I eat every bite.

"So," she says, finally, leaning her elbow on the table, fork poised midair, "do you want to know why I think Freeport is the key to all this, or are you just here to make sure I don't choke on a crouton?"

"Both," I say. "But start with Freeport."

She rolls her eyes but pushes her plate aside and pulls a leather portfolio from under the bench. Of course she has a leather portfolio. The thing probably has color-coded tabs, backup copies, and an emergency flash drive hidden in the spine.

Sutton Blake doesn’t do anything halfway—and she sure as hell doesn’t come to the table unprepared.

"Okay," she begins, flipping it open. "When I started pulling the threads, most of the transactions tied to Hollister's shell companies circled around Houston, Austin, Galveston—your usual suspects.

But then there's this offshore account that suddenly began feeding money to a series of seemingly unrelated LLCs that all made one-time equipment purchases from the same distribution hub—an old freight terminal in Freeport. Not suspicious on its own, but..."

"But?"

She glances up. Her hazel eyes spark, a wildfire of intellect and challenge, like she’s daring me to keep up with the storm she’s unraveling—one secret at a time.

"Two of those companies are now defunct. One disappeared, the other rebranded under a different name within six months. And the third? Still active. Just purchased a second warehouse... two weeks before Sookie was killed."

That gets my attention.

"You think they're hiding something in Freeport."

"No," she says, eyes narrowing. "I think they’re moving something. And I think Sookie found out."

I lean back, absorbing it. Her instincts are sharper than most analysts I've worked with—sharper than some operatives, even. She sees patterns others miss and connects them like threads pulled tight between pressure points.

She's not just playing detective. She's drawing blood—and the look in her eyes tells me she’ll keep going until someone bleeds for real. It guts me more than I want to admit because I know that kind of drive. It comes from losing something you can't get back.

"You show this to anyone else?"

"No. You're the first."

Trust. It clings to the edge of her voice like a loose thread, fragile and catching on something unspoken—hope, maybe. Or the fear that believing in someone again might cost her more than she’s willing to lose.

I nod. "Good. Keep it that way. I'll run it through Gage, see what shakes loose."

She packs everything away, not saying anything for a few moments.

The silence isn’t awkward. It's taut, like a wire strung between us, humming with a charge neither of us wants to touch yet—thick with everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t.

It thrums with the weight of what’s coming, and the things we don’t dare name but already feel shaping the space between us.

After she clears the dishes, she turns toward the hall. "I'm going to bed. Try not to rearrange the furniture or murder any intruders in the living room, okay?"

"No promises," I mutter.

She pauses, mouth twitching. "Night, Deacon."

"Night, Sutton."

When the door to her bedroom clicks shut, I let out a slow breath and check my phone, thumb tightening around the edge like it might crack.

My stomach knots as the screen lights up, pulse ticking hard behind my ears, the quiet suddenly too loud, the shadows pressed against the windows a little too still.

Every instinct I’ve got is coiled tight, warning me the night isn’t done yet.

Sutton is officially on the Reaper’s radar—drawn into the crosshairs of a man who never misses. This isn’t just a warning. It’s a declaration. And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that he won’t stop until he’s either taken her… or I’ve stopped him first.

I head to the front window, lights off, letting my gaze sweep the street. Calm. Too calm. The kind of quiet that buzzes under your skin, like the air before a lightning strike. My instincts prickle.

The Reaper isn’t just efficient. He’s a ghost who leaves no trace—unless he wants you to find it. And this? This is a message, bold as a bullet casing on a doormat. He’s not just close—he’s watching, testing the wire for weakness.

By the time Gideon pulls up in his matte black Charger, I’m already at the front door, eyes scanning the darkness like it might blink.

He steps out, nodding once, the weight of everything unspoken between us settling like an extra shadow on the street.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t need to.

We’ve done this before—too many times, in too many places where silence spoke louder than orders.

"Anything?"

"Not yet," I say. "But he’s here. I can feel it."

"Then go," Gideon says. "I’ll hold the perimeter."

I slip out the back, my boots soundless on the steps, heart hammering low and steady in my chest. The alley behind her townhouse stretches long and empty, cloaked in the kind of silence that feels too deliberate—like something’s holding its breath.

The air is dense with humidity and the faint ozone of distant storms. I inhale—and there it is.

A scent.

Not sweat. Not cologne. Not rot.

Darkness. Cold metal. Gun oil and grave earth.

My wolf rises like a wave inside me—hot and electric, prickling beneath my skin, rushing to the surface with a hunger that tastes like iron and thunder.

The scent of her clings to the air behind me, a silent reminder of what I’m protecting—and what I’ll destroy to keep her safe.

It’s not rage. It’s purpose. And it leaves no room for hesitation. Not wild, not unruly—but demanding.

I slip into the narrow cut between her townhouse and the neighbor’s garage, pulse thudding in time with the warning growl curling low in my throat. My fingers curl at my sides. My skin tightens. The night shivers around me.

And then the mist comes.

It curls up from the pavement, thick and silver, dancing with static, shards of color slicing through like broken glass catching moonlight. Thunder growls deep, rolling low beneath the hum of the alley. Lightning snaps across the air—not above, but within.

I close my eyes. There is no pain. No cracking bones.

No tearing flesh. Just release—warm, liquid, and seductive.

It slides over me like silk, melting the boundary between what I am and what I become.

My pulse slows, then surges, as heat blooms beneath my skin.

Every nerve lights up, a sensual burn, like a lover's touch drawn down my spine.

It's not a fall. It's a surrender. A breathless plunge into something ancient, primal, and boundless—where instinct reigns and desire howls.

Heat floods my blood. My breath shudders out of me, a moan caught between agony and ecstasy, and I am nothing but muscle, hunger, and the echo of something feral waking beneath my skin.

The mist envelops me, silken and relentless, threading through my limbs with a lover’s possessive grip, dragging me under like a riptide and rebuilding me from the inside out—bone to sinew, flesh to fur, man to myth.

When it clears, I am no longer a man.

I am instinct. I am predator.

I am wolf.

The world sharpens around me. Colors bloom into impossible clarity, edged in electricity.

Sounds unravel like silk torn in slow motion—every layer distinct, rich, and raw.

A mosquito hums ten yards away, its wings a whisper of friction.

A rat scurries behind a drainpipe, nails clicking like a ticking clock.

The wind tastes of asphalt, blood, and the copper promise of violence.

But what I care about—what I feel with every taut nerve and coiled sinew—is the fading trace of a man who has taken everything from me.

The echo of his presence skims over my senses like a lover’s goodbye—bitter, intimate, unforgivable.

The Reaper has been here. Was Sutton only feet away while he watched from the dark?

The thought slams into me like a blow, turning instinct into fury—pure, hot, and unrelenting.

My muscles coil tight, claws biting into the pavement.

A snarl tears from my throat, low and savage, vibrating through my ribs like the pulse of war drums. I see red—sharp, searing flashes behind my eyes—and it takes everything in me not to launch into the night and rip apart the silence until I find him.

He was close. Too damn close. And if he so much as breathed in her direction, I’ll make him bleed for every second she was under his gaze.

I track the scent to the edge of the alley, each step slow and deliberate, a silent vow etched into the ground beneath my paws.

It slips through the shadows like a whisper laced with threat, curling around the fire escape, lingering with possessive arrogance on the lower window ledge of Sutton’s townhouse— her space, her sanctuary.

The trace coils there like a challenge, daring me to see how close he got.

My lips curl in a soundless snarl. The scent doesn’t just vanish—it retreats, slinking into the street like a predator testing boundaries.

He got close enough to taste her shadow. And that’s one breath too close.

Too damn close.

My lips peel back over sharp teeth. I move low to the ground, stalking the edge of the fence line, heart pounding with primal purpose. My paws are silent on the concrete. Every breath I take is a question, every step a vow.

You will not touch her.

You will not take another thing from me. Try it, bastard. I dare you. Come close enough, and I’ll show you what happens when a wolf stops hunting and starts claiming.

You will not leave this city alive.

The wind glides past, brushing icy fingers over my fur, tugging at the Reaper’s scent before it fades.

I push farther out, muscles taut, every nerve honed to a razor’s edge.

Just past the narrow curve of the alley, where the light breaks and the dark folds in close, a smear of blood glistens on the pavement—fresh, wet, and defiantly human.

It shines like a warning staked to the earth. Not just a clue. A dare.

Fresh.

Human.

A visceral reminder that the hunt is no longer theoretical—it’s personal.

He’s marked the edge of her world like a dog staking claim, leaving behind the one thing guaranteed to light a fire under my skin.

This blood isn’t just evidence—it’s provocation, an invitation, a twisted game of chicken where he’s daring me to lose control.

He’s testing the line, inching closer with every move, watching to see how far he can go before I shatter the leash around my fury and rip him apart.

Not Sutton’s.

Another message.

I press my nose closer, inhaling deep, letting it fill every part of me until my lungs burn with it.

The scent is mixed—copper sharp enough to cut, the acrid tang of adrenaline-soaked sweat, fear clinging like wet velvet.

And beneath it all, colder than the grave and twice as cruel, is the Reaper’s signature—clean, clinical, and inhuman.

It slides down my throat like ice, awakening something ruthless in my blood.

My hackles rise. My claws scrape the pavement.

Every part of me screams to run him down and end this—before he marks her next.

A warning.

Or a promise.

Either way, the game just changed.

I raise my head, eyes glowing, moonlight catching the silver threads along my fur. I hear the subtle scrape of Gideon adjusting his position behind me, his scent grounding me

The Reaper is already gone. Next time? He won’t be so lucky.