Page 15

SUTTON

T he sound that wakes me isn’t the low rumble of Deacon pacing or the sharp clink of his weapons being checked. It’s… whistling.

Not the kind of eerie, off-key kind you hear in horror movies, either. This is cheerful. Jaunty. Like someone without a single care in the world decided it was a perfect morning for cookies and cowboy tunes. And that someone, clearly, is not Deacon.

I blink up at the ceiling, disoriented by the cheery lilt of some old country song drifting through the townhouse.

My sheets are tangled around my legs, warm with sleep and something heavier—unease maybe.

Deacon should be here. But the hallway is empty.

His energy, always so damn palpable, is missing.

I slip out of bed, wrap my robe around me, and pad barefoot into the hallway.

The floor is cool beneath my feet, the hush of the early morning wrapping around me like fog.

The scent of chocolate, sugar, and butter hits me like a soft slap—warm, rich, and almost absurdly domestic.

Cookies—chocolate chip ones to be exact.

For one suspended heartbeat, I imagine a world where mornings start like this, sweet and simple.

The scent of cookies, the soft patter of bare feet on wood floors, a man in the kitchen who isn’t haunted by ghosts or carrying the weight of a thousand silent wars.

A world where I’m not trying to outmaneuver death at every corner.

Then reality rushes back in like a slap of cold water to the face.

Deacon’s gone.

Not in the way a person steps out for a coffee or takes a walk to clear their head.

No, this absence is deeper. It thrums in the air, a vacuum where his presence used to wrap around the space like a storm front.

That raw, electric awareness of him—of his restlessness, his heat, his barely-contained protectiveness—is gone.

And it leaves something in its place—an ache I don’t understand. A hollow I can’t quite explain.

I clutch the edge of the banister tighter.

My instincts tingle, a low buzz crawling along my spine, whispering that this isn’t just a simple morning absence.

There’s a change in the air, subtle but unmistakable, like a missing note in a song I didn’t realize I’d memorized.

Something’s wrong. Something’s… different.

My skin prickles, not with fear exactly, but with the uneasy certainty that the moment I name what I’m feeling, everything will change.

I come down the stairs and look into the kitchen and blink again.

Gideon Bonham. I’ve seen him before at the bakery here in town.

He’s tall, broad, and terrifyingly efficient—is standing at my stove in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, humming while he pulls a tray of cookies out of the oven like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Morning,” he says without turning around.

I narrow my eyes. “Where’s Deacon?”

He flips a cookie onto the cooling rack with military precision. “Out.”

“Out,” I echo. “That’s all I get?”

Gideon glances over his shoulder. “He’ll be back.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

I fold my arms. “I’m not a civilian in this. You all need me, remember?”

“We do.” He nods toward the plate. “Want a cookie?”

“I want answers," I say taking a spoonful of cookie dough. Delicious.

Gideon just arches an eyebrow and returns to arranging the second batch of cookies on the baking sheet. I don't remember owning cookie sheets or a fancy stand mixer for that matter.

"Sutton," he says after a beat, tone low but firm, "I know you’re smart. But sometimes, knowing everything isn’t the safest choice."

"Don’t be condescending," I snap, taking another spoonful of dough. "I’ve spent the last few years untangling embezzlement schemes and laundering fronts for oil companies. Damn this is really good."

"It's better and healthier baked."

"I don't care. I like the dough better."

Gideon chuckles. "So does Deacon."

"So Gideon, what's going on? Do you think I can’t handle a little black-ops drama?"

"This isn’t black-ops drama." His gaze sharpens. "It’s deeper and older than anything you’ve read in a report."

"And still no straight answers," I mutter, folding my arms. "You sound like Deacon now—cryptic and growly."

He actually cracks a smile. Just barely. "Maybe because he knows what’s coming. And maybe he’s trying to shield you from it."

"Too late," I say quietly. "I’m already in it.

Look, I get it." I step closer, but trying to physically intimidate a guy Gideon's size is an exercise in futility.

"You guys live in some classified, hush-hush world, but I'm not an idiot. Something’s off. And it’s more than just Deacon being a walking, growling storm cloud. "

Gideon sighs, scraping a cookie off the tray. "It’s not that simple. You think it’s all shadow ops and encrypted files, but what we deal with... Like I said, it’s older than that. Deeper. It gets into your blood, your bones. Changes how you see the world."

"Nothing is ever simple. But I deserve to know what kind of mess I’ve been dragged into. What I’m risking my neck for. Is or was Sookie part of whatever this is? This thing with you and Deacon."

Gideon shakes his head. "I don't know." He sets the spatula down and looks at me—really looks at me—searching my face. "You’re risking more than your neck, Sutton. You just don’t know it yet."

That pulls me up short. The air between us stretches tight, heat prickling beneath my skin—not fear exactly, but something close.

A flicker of realization that whatever Gideon’s holding back, it’s big.

Bigger than me. Bigger than even Deacon.

And maybe I’ve just stepped into something I’ll never be able to step out of again.

I glance at Gideon, every instinct urging me to push harder, demand answers, scream if I have to.

But something in his eyes stops me—a flicker of real concern, of protective hesitation.

He’s not being cruel. He’s guarding something, someone.

Maybe even me. And somewhere deep down, past the chaos and rising questions, I know one thing with bone-deep certainty.

I know I can trust Deacon and the rest of his team, even if I don’t understand why yet.

"Is that supposed to scare me?"

"No," he says quietly. "It’s supposed to make you careful. Because once you know the truth, there’s no going back."

My jaw tightens. He thinks he can deflect me with baked goods and stoic silence? Not a chance. I’m done playing along.

I take another spoonful of cookie dough, defiantly licking it off the spoon while staring him down. Gideon doesn’t flinch. Instead, he scoops a small mound of dough and offers it to me with a shrug.

"Figured you might want one more before you go full rebel."

I take it without breaking eye contact. "I’m already there."

He huffs a dry laugh. "Yeah, I figured."

I walk to the window, frustration simmering under my skin, a restless heat prickling beneath the surface.

Like that’s going to distract me. The street outside is quiet, too quiet.

Still no Deacon. Not out front, not on the sidewalk, not pacing like a caged wolf the way he was yesterday.

No shadow in the doorway. No flicker of movement.

Just stillness—and the growing knot of worry twisting tighter in my gut.

And that’s when it hits me.

Not a thought. Not a theory. A knowing.

Like a click behind my breastbone, sharp and sudden.

The silence. The absence. The eerie calm broken by the hum of a man who isn't Deacon.

Something prickles down my spine, and all at once, I know he's not just out on a morning errand.

He's out there, somewhere close—and hiding something I was never supposed to see.

Something he never meant for me to know, much less understand.

I let my gaze slide toward the back patio door. Locked, but easy enough to unlock. Gideon hums something under his breath, the kind of tune you hear in war movies before everything explodes. I wait until he’s focused on the oven again and then slowly, quietly open the back door and slip outside.

The morning air is heavy with humidity, thick and clinging to my skin like a second layer.

But beneath it, there’s a faint trace of something wild—earthy and sharp, like the air before a storm and damp moss clinging to stone.

It catches in the back of my throat, metallic and electric, stirring something primal inside me I can’t name.

I step onto the patio, bare feet pressing into the cool concrete, and look around.

At first, nothing. Just the quiet hush of a Galveston morning—the kind that masks secrets beneath sunshine and stillness. But then I spot them.

Boot prints. Large. Deep in the mud along the edge of the garden where my rosemary bush is overgrown... and next to them—paw prints.

I crouch down, my breath hitching as I reach out with trembling fingers.

The soil is damp, still soft from last night’s rain, and I trace the outline of one of the paw prints.

It's massive. The spread of the toes, the indentation of the pads—it’s unmistakable.

Wolf. But not just any wolf. The size alone rules that out.

My fingertip comes away dirty, smudged with mud and something more primal. My pulse stutters, and I press my hand against the ground beside it, comparing the size. It dwarfs mine. The earth still holds the echo of heat, of weight, like whoever left it was just here. Watching. Hunting.

And yet, there’s no fear in me. Only wonder. Only a strange, electric certainty that I’ve just stepped into a truth I can’t unsee—one that crackles through me like static before a lightning strike, impossible to ignore, impossible to forget.

My breath catches, a shiver racing down my spine as the morning air suddenly feels colder. Goosebumps rise along my arms. Not just any animal. These are too big. Too distinct. Wolf.