Page 17

DEACON

T he early morning sun cuts through the last threads of fog as I step through the side gate.

I pause for a second, scanning the patio instinctively.

My senses are still tuned to the hunt—ears straining, nose catching the sharp tang of coffee and the faint metallic echo of dried blood from hours before.

It’s not fear that tugs at me—it’s the instinct to protect, to be certain.

My eyes scan the rooftop edges and the alley beyond the fence, senses sharpening like drawn steel.

A slight alteration in the breeze carries with it nothing but salt and dew, but still, I can't shake the sense that something’s waiting.

Watching. My muscles stay coiled, every nerve alive with that hunter’s edge, the one that whispers: not yet.

The danger isn’t gone. It’s only crouched in the dark, waiting to strike again.

Gideon’s sitting in one of the patio chairs, a mug of coffee in one hand, my jeans and boots on the table beside him.

The morning sun filters through the slats of the fence, casting long shadows across the cracked stone patio.

There’s no railing, just uneven stone warmed by the rising light and an herb pot Sutton keeps by the back door—its leaves brushing his elbow like a sentinel.

He looks relaxed, but I know better. Underneath that lazy sprawl is a soldier on high alert, tracking every sound, every change in the wind, just like I am.

“You’re late,” he says, not looking up. He doesn’t even look at me. “Figured if I didn't meet you out here, you’d come in through the back buck naked and scare the neighbors.”

I grunt, grabbing the jeans. “You’re just lucky there aren’t more neighbors around. I’d have walked in bare-assed without blinking.”

“Pretty sure the HOA doesn’t cover sunrise streaking.”

I tug on the jeans and boots. “Appreciate the delivery. Could’ve just left ‘em under the bush,” I mutter as I step up.

“I appreciate the discretion—it’s not usually your strong suit. You find what you were looking for?”

I nod once. “The Reaper’s been here. Close enough to bleed.”

Gideon straightens. “He make contact?”

“Not directly. But he left a mark in the alley. A few drops of blood. Fresh. Deliberate.”

Gideon curses under his breath. “He’s getting bolder. Sutton saw the tracks."

"That’s why my clothes are missing from where I left them?"

"She hasn't said much yet, but she's been on her computer for quite a while. It’s clear she knows something’s off. That girl’s smarter than we gave her credit for.”

“I never underestimated her intelligence. I take it she didn’t run.”

“Of course she didn’t. Sutton’s your mate.”

I tug on my jeans, then shove my feet into the boots with practiced force. “She deserves the truth.”

Gideon nods. “Then go give it to her. And hurry. Rush isn’t going to want to wait long.”

"Tell him what we found yesterday and what I found this morning. The Reaper's been close, he isn't alone and he doesn't care if we know."

Gideon nods as I push open the door and step inside.

The moment I step through the back door, I feel Sutton’s energy hit me like a live wire—tense, contained, electric.

She’s in the kitchen, perched on the edge of a barstool, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Not angry—cautious. Curious. And maybe a little bruised beneath it all.

Her presence floods the space like a challenge I’m not sure I’ve earned the right to answer yet.

Gideon follows me in, grabs a handful of cookies, and retreats back outside saying, “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

My clothes from last night are laid out neatly on the island, a silent acknowledgment of what I had to become hours ago.

"Nice of you to finally show," Sutton says, lifting an eyebrow. Her voice is even, but her fingers drum the counter like she’s holding something back.

I move to the island buttoning up my jeans, letting the silence stretch. “Gideon brought these out to me. Figured I shouldn’t walk in the door naked.”

“Probably a good call,” she mutters.

As I approach, she’s watching me—not just watching, analyzing.

Reading every movement like she’s memorizing a playbook for war.

Her gaze flicks from my face to the tension in my shoulders, down to my hands, as if trying to decipher what I’m hiding under the surface.

I feel it—her scrutiny, sharp and cool, a needle threading its way under my skin.

She’s always been observant, but this is different.

She’s not trying to figure me out. She’s trying to decide if she can still trust me.

“Talk to me, Sutton,” I tell her.

She sets her mug down. “I figured out the gist of it, but not everything.”

I nod and step closer, keeping my tone even. “Then let me say it plain. I’m a wolf-shifter and you’re my fated mate.”

She takes in the information and says, “Just like that?”

I nod. “Just like that—no metaphor, no maybe. Just truth. Wolves like me don’t date, don’t dabble, don’t fall in and out of love.

We mate once, claiming our fated mate for life.

When we find the one, it hits us like a thunderclap—inescapable, irreversible.

The bond we feel? It’s not just emotional.

It sinks into bone, blood, instinct. You’re already part of me, whether you meant to be or not.

And I wouldn’t undo that for anything in this world or the next. ”

She’s silent, but the way her breath catches tells me she hears it.

Feels it. Her shoulders tense, and a fine tremble skims across her collarbone.

She stiffens, her fingers curling tighter around the ceramic mug, knuckles white.

A flicker of something crosses her face—uncertainty, maybe even fear—but it’s gone before I can name it, like smoke caught on the wind.

"And if I don't want to be claimed?"

"Then you won't be. I won't force something sacred. You always have a choice. But it doesn't change the fact that I feel it. Bone-deep. The moment I met you, something inside me locked onto you like you were the other half of a map I didn’t know I was following."

She’s quiet, eyes flicking down to her mug.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the handle, knuckles paling, and a subtle change in her posture suggests the weight of my words settling deep in her chest. I catch the slightest quiver in her breath before she steadies herself, blinking once like she’s locking her emotions behind glass.

"Some of the books I read weren't exactly scholarly. There's an awful lot of romance books that feature shifters. Do they have it right?"

“Some of it’s fantasy. Some of it’s real or at least based on reality. You could become like me. Not by accident. Not without intention. And never without a cost.”

Her gaze jerks up. “Cost?”

“It’s not like accepting my ring and changing your last name. You’d have to want it in every cell. Accept the risk. The pain. The transition isn’t just physical—it rewrites what you are at a cellular level. There's no going back.”

She crosses her arms tighter. “So it’s dangerous?”

“Not often, but it can be. I won't push you into accepting the transition, but the bond? That’s already forming, even now.”

She exhales sharply, a mix of disbelief and intrigue in her eyes. “So what, I’m supposed to just drop everything, move to a ranch, and play shifter’s girlfriend while trying not to die?”

“No,” I say, voice low and serious. “You’re supposed to survive. And right now, that means being where it’s safe. Where my team can protect you while we hunt the bastard who started this.”

There’s a beat of silence before Gideon clears his throat from behind me.

"Sorry to interrupt this very intense mating ritual," he says, voice dry, "but we’ve got bigger problems. I talked to Rush. The Reaper’s struck again. Confirmed. He's not going to let Sutton live."

Sutton straightens. "Here, like in Galveston?"

"Here as in watching this damn townhouse earlier last night," answers Gideon. "Deacon caught his scent. He’s not hiding anymore. He’s circling."

The protective instinct roars up so fast it almost takes my breath away—and not in a good way.

"Rush doesn’t want a confrontation here in the city," Gideon continues. "Too many eyes. Too many bodies. We need to draw him out instead—someplace we control."

“The ranch,” I say.

He nods. “Dalton’s already got your Range Rover there, Sutton."

"How?" asks Sutton. "I didn't give anyone my keys."

Gideon and I both laugh. "Dalton's been boosting vehicles since he was a kid.

" He turns back to me. "Gage and Dalton are setting up the outer perimeter.

Rush wants everyone on-site sooner rather than later and wants you on the road with Sutton as soon as possible.

I'll be picking up Maggie and Kari within the hour.”

I let out a slow breath. I don’t expect Sutton to recognize the names. She doesn’t know them—hasn’t met anyone beyond Gideon and me—but the question still hangs in the air between us.

"Maggie and Kari are?" she asks Gideon.

"Gideon's mate and his kid sister."

I answer her literal question, but her silence says more than words—she's not just asking about names. She's asking what kind of war this really is. How far the Reaper’s reach has already stretched—and how much farther it could go. The weight behind her eyes isn’t confusion.

It’s dawning clarity, and the realization that she’s now part of something much larger than survival.

Glancing at her, I note the tight set of her jaw, the furrowed brow. She's worried, and not just for herself. Probably wondering what kind of war she’s just walked into. My chest tightens under the weight of it. She’s already carrying more than she should have to.

“All of us,” Gideon confirms. “Even the governor’s been briefed. We either end this there, or we set the trap for later. But we can’t do it with civilians standing in the crossfire.”

“I’ll take her now,” I say, already moving.

Gideon nods. “I’ll bring her gear and pick up Maggie and Kari. Be careful on the road.”