Page 20

DEACON

T he instant Sutton stills beneath my touch, a visceral alert flares inside me, like a live current snapping down my spine, jolting every nerve awake.

My breath shortens, a tight, controlled intake as if bracing for a blow.

My shoulders lock, tension winding through every muscle like a fuse lit too close to the powder.

Every nerve fires a warning—loud, insistent, impossible to ignore.

Something’s wrong. Not just the usual buzz of alertness I carry like armor, but a deeper, more primal pulse that reverberates in my bones.

It started the moment I stepped onto the porch and caught the wind’s new edge.

The scent carried more than dirt and trees.

It carried intent. Malevolence. My wolf stirs, uneasily.

Now, standing in the kitchen with her lips still warm against mine, I taste more than desire.

The air feels charged, the way it does before a lightning strike—tension crackling just beneath the surface.

Beneath the heat of her kiss lingers a chill that settles in my gut.

Not just instinct. A warning. Something dangerous is closing in, stalking us through the calm like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

“We need to move,” I say, my voice low. Her eyes search mine, sharp and questioning.

“What is it?”

I don’t answer right away. I tilt my head, scanning the compound with every sense heightened.

The instincts that have carried me through hell flare to life, sharp and immediate.

A prickle dances across the back of my neck.

The air has gone taut, like a wire drawn too tight—every breath thick with warning, as if the very molecules have rearranged themselves around me.

My muscles lock, and a cold awareness sinks into my gut.

Something is out there, and it's watching.

I yank my phone from my pocket, fingers tight with urgency, and jab Gage’s number. He answers before the first full ring fades, voice clipped and alert.

“Talk to me.”

“Motion on the perimeter,” Gage says without preamble. “Northeast sector. Coyote shifter scent. Matches partial signature from the Hollister scene.”

My gut tightens, a savage knot pulling deep and low like jaws clenching around prey, fierce and unrelenting. The name alone sends a jolt down my spine—the Reaper. A ghost in the dark. A killer with no conscience. And now, he's closer than ever.

“Distance?”

“Within fifty miles. Could be closer. He’s not alone. Three, maybe four with him. Could be scouts, but we’re treating it as forward movement.”

“Full lockdown,” I order. “Double the perimeter. I want eyes on the tree line, and I want Dalton in the back with Maggie. Rush up front. You stay with surveillance and keep me updated every fifteen minutes.”

“Already on it.”

I end the call and turn back to Sutton. Her jaw is set, but her hands tremble slightly where they rest against the edge of the counter. I see it—the slight quiver in her fingers, the way her knuckles whiten. It's subtle, but to me, it's glaring.

My gut knots, a primal ache twisting low in my chest. I want to pull her into my arms, to breathe her in and reassure her, but I know better than to offer lies dressed as comfort.

My breath comes shallow, clipped. The danger feels closer now, and she feels it too.

The air between us pulses with unspoken truths and looming threats.

She's holding the line—but barely. Brave, steady, but straining under the tension. And I swear on everything I am, I’ll be the one to hold it with her.

She may not say it aloud, but she knows—something is coming.

And she knows I’ve already braced to meet it.

“Is it him?” she asks.

“Yes.” I step in close again, but this time I don’t kiss her. I rest my hands on her shoulders, grounding us both. “We’ve got movement about fifty miles out. Reaper’s circling.”

“So what now?”

“Now we prep for whatever the hell he’s got planned.”

Behind her, Cassidy and Maggie exchange a look, their eyes narrowing with awareness.

Kari has gone utterly still, mug frozen midair as her nostrils flare.

I see the ripple of tension run through her frame, shoulders squaring, gaze scanning the door.

Good. They’re reading the air, reacting to the pressure prickling across their skin.

Cassidy’s fingers twitch at her sides like she’s seconds from reaching for a weapon.

With a quiet motion, Maggie repositions herself—weight even, one foot sliding back in preparation.

Their instincts are on point—alert, sharpened, ready. Just as they should be.

I meet Cassidy’s eyes. “Get your gear. Same for the others. We hold fast and wait for Rush’s word.”

Cassidy gives me a crisp nod and turns, disappearing into the hallway with Maggie and Kari right behind her, their movements sharpening with the precision of warriors readying for battle.

The air they leave in their wake is filled with the scent of adrenaline, resolve, and something fiercer—protective fire aimed in Sutton’s direction.

I watch them go, a silent vow forming in my gut: whoever’s coming?

They’ll regret ever thinking she was an easy mark.

Sutton's fingers wrap firmly around my wrist before I can turn to follow, her grip sudden and sure—an anchor, not a plea. It halts me mid-step, the warmth of her skin a jolt against the rising adrenaline surging in my blood.

“Deacon.”

My name on her lips is a tether that hauls me back from the edge.

Chaos is my native language—war my constant companion—but hearing her say it?

It digs under my skin, rips straight through my armor.

She's not just a variable in my mission.

She's the mission. And the idea of her in the Reaper’s sights turns that chaos into something sharp, personal, and deadly.

Her grip is sudden and sure—an anchor, not a plea.

It halts me mid-step, the warmth of her skin a jolt against the rising adrenaline surging in my blood.

“If something happens,” I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend, “you find one of them—Cassidy, Maggie, or Kari—and stay glued to them. No heroics. No disappearing acts. You move when they move. Understood?”

Her mouth tightens. I see the flicker of fight in her eyes—that fierce pride that hates being handled or ordered.

It’s there in the slight tilt of her chin, the stubborn line of her jaw.

But threading beneath it, glimmering just out of reach, is something quieter.

Steadier. She doesn't like it, but she believes me. She trusts me.

“Understood,” she says quietly.

I cup her jaw, my thumb brushing slowly across her cheekbone, needing the contact more than I want to admit.

Her skin is satin beneath my callused hand, and the warmth of her seeps straight into my bloodstream.

For one impossible second, I let myself feel it all—the burn of fear, the raw edge of desire, the aching need to keep her safe.

I want to memorize this moment, anchor it deep, because everything past it is war—and I don't know how many more of these I’ll get.

Her skin is warm—soft in a way that makes my chest ache and my blood rise.

I lean closer, inhaling the subtle trace of citrus and salt on her skin.

The contrast—the vulnerability of her softness against the brutal edge of the world we're bracing to meet—shreds whatever armor I have left.

A primal presence stirs from deep within, restless and razor-edged, teeth bared, possessive and enraged at the thought of anyone laying a hand on her.

Sutton's not fragile, not by a long shot—but the thought of her breaking on my watch? That’s the kind of fear that carves itself into bone.

“I can’t lose you, Sutton. I can't lose you. Not now. Not while there's still breath in my body to protect you.”

She draws in a shaky breath, then releases it in a soft, trembling exhale that brushes the skin above my collar.

Her fingers slide up, wrapping around my wrists with a grip that’s not just grounding—it’s a demand, a promise, a silent claim.

Her touch sends a surge of heat down my spine, raw and electric.

I feel the fierce flutter of her pulse beneath my touch, each beat syncing with mine, welding us together in a connection that scorches down to the marrow—raw, primal, unrelenting.

Her scent curls around me—spice, salt, something uniquely her—and it roots me more firmly than any command ever could.

“Then don’t even think about charging off like some tragic hero. I swear, Deacon, if you pull that kind of stunt, I’ll drag you back by the ear myself.”

A ghost of a smile curves my mouth. “Not without you.”

The pounding of boots draws closer, heavy and unrelenting.

Rush barrels into the room, tugging a tactical vest over his worn T-shirt with the precision of someone who’s done this more times than he can count.

His gaze sweeps across the space like a scythe, hard and assessing, before locking on me with laser focus, the unspoken question clear in his flinty eyes.

“Briefing in the war room. Five minutes. Sutton too.”

Sutton arches a brow. “Me?”

“You’re part of this now,” Rush says simply. Then he’s gone again.

Sutton looks up at me. Her gaze sears into mine—burning bright, fierce.

Not fear. Something deeper. A storm of resolve, defiance, and something that threatens to undo me.

Her spine straightens like steel drawn tight, chin lifted in challenge, daring the world to come for her.

And God help whatever does—because she’s not standing alone.

I’ll rip them apart, limb by limb, until there’s nothing left but blood in the dirt and a warning in the air.

“Guess I better grab my Glock,” she mutters.