Page 4

Sutton moves, pulling out her phone and typing something, then tucking it away. Her fingers tap against the bar, restless. She’s waiting for something... or someone.

My jaw ticks. Time to move. I push away from the bar, making my way toward her, keeping my steps measured, my approach calculated. I don’t know what she’s expecting, but she sure as hell isn’t expecting me.

I lean in just enough to invade her space, just enough to make her stiffen. Good. That means she’s paying attention.

“You’re in the wrong bar, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice low enough that only she hears.

She turns her head slowly, her hazel eyes sharp, assessing. Not scared—curious.

“You don’t even know what I’m looking for,” she says, her tone even.

I let out a rough chuckle, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not gonna find it here.”

Her lips curve into something that isn’t quite a grin but isn’t not one either. “You don’t know me.”

I adjust my posture, letting her feel the heat of my presence, letting her understand that I’m not just some asshole at a bar.

“Oh, but I do.” I tilt my head, letting my gaze flicker over her, slow, deliberate. “Sutton Blake. Good girl who's developing a bad habit of getting into things that aren’t her business.”

Her breath hitches. Gotcha.

But she recovers fast. She narrows her eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

I grin. “I’m the guy who’s going to keep you alive if you listen.”

Her fingers flex on the bar. “And if I don’t?”

I step even closer, my voice dropping into something darker, something final.

“Then, sweetheart, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

She exhales slowly, but she doesn’t look away and doesn’t back down.

And damn it all to hell, I know right then and there—this woman is going to be a problem.

A big one.

I follow her out of the Devil’s Den, close enough to cover her if things go sideways. She doesn’t look back as she crosses the lot, keys already in hand, shoulders squared like she dares anyone to follow.

Smart woman. Stupid brave.

She climbs into a black Range Rover. The door closes with a solid thunk, and I stand there in the dark, arms crossed, watching the headlights flare to life.

She pauses. Just for a second. Then she pulls out and drives away, taillights vanishing into the Galveston night. I exhale and head to my Harley.

I leave the Devil’s Den behind her, the rumble of my motorcycle low and steady as I wind through the outskirts of Galveston.

The air changes as I ride—less grit, more salt, a breeze off the water that cools the edge of my tension but doesn’t erase it.

I take back roads, sticking to the shadows, letting instinct guide me more than memory.

It’s nearly dark when I pull into her neighborhood.

I find a place to hide my Harley and bunk down for the night.

I keep an eye on the neighborhood all through the following morning.

Nothing exceptional to note. I pay close attention to her townhouse—third one down, end unit, all brick with sharp white trim and black shutters.

No gnome in the flower bed. Instead, there’s a hand-carved statue of a howling wolf on one side of the front steps, and a dragon curled in the other corner, wings folded like it's guarding something precious.

Hand-crafted wind chimes hang from the porch beam, soft and low, almost melodic in the breeze.

I know this setup. Nice place. Upper middle-class money. Sturdy doors. Clean landscaping. But something’s off. I feel it like static under my skin.

I walk the perimeter first. Old habit. I’m not going in blind. Her curtains are drawn. Lights off except in the kitchen. I see movement—small, sharp. She’s pacing.

I knock.

No answer.

I knock again, louder.

Footsteps. Then the door opens, and she’s standing there in jeans and a tank top, barefoot, hair up in a haphazard knot, like she hasn’t realized she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Like she forgot the room catches fire when she walks into it.

Her eyes narrow. I know she recognizes me from the Devil’s Den, but I didn’t actually introduce myself. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

“Deacon Winslow, Texas Ranger."

"ID?" I hand it to her and she studies it carefully before nodding. "Is that anything like 'Walker, Texas Ranger?" she says with a grin.

"Only a little bit. I'm a lot taller. I’m here about the sketch you gave Detective Wilson.”

Her arms cross. She’s not inviting me in. “So now they care.”

“I have no idea if they care or not. All I know is I do.”

She tilts her head. “And why is that?”

“Because I know who that man is. And I know what he does.”

She studies me, calculating. Her mind moves fast. I can see it.

She exhales through her nose. “Of course you do.”

“I need to come in.”

“You always lead with demands, Ranger?”

“When someone’s marked by a contract killer, yeah.”

She steps back a half inch. Not fear—just enough room to think. She’s processing.

Finally, she unlocks the chain reaching from her door to the doorjamb and turns to walk in without waiting for me.

I follow.

Her place is warm and inviting. Nothing matches and yet everything goes together.

It’s the kind of space that feels curated for soul instead of status—nothing sterile, nothing safe.

Not like the bunkers and safehouses I’m used to, all cold metal and concrete.

Here, every object feels like it has a story, like it was chosen on purpose.

I don’t belong in this kind of softness.

But I feel the pull of it anyway. It smells like sage and lavender and her. No fear in the air. Not yet.

“You want a beer?” she asks without turning.

I blink. “You serious? Isn't it kind of early?”

"It's five o'clock somewhere," she tosses back over her shoulder as she opens the fridge. “No point dying sober.”

I accept the bottle. She takes one for herself. We face off across her kitchen island.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to compliment my décor,” she says.

“No.” I nod at the sketch on the table. “You saw the Reaper.”

She frowns. “Is that his actual name or a nickname you edgy types use when you run out of acronyms?”

“He’s real. And he’s not just a hitman. He’s cleanup. If he’s in Galveston, someone big still has influence. We believe that you having seen him well enough to make the sketch means you being alive is a problem for him.”

She leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “So I’m bait.”

“No. You’re leverage. Bait’s disposable.”

She lifts a brow. “Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel safe.”

I hold her gaze. “I’m not here to make you feel anything. I’m here to keep you breathing.”

Her voice softens slightly. “And if I say I don’t want protection?”

“Too bad. You’ve got it anyway.”

She studies me, and for a second, everything stills. Then she tips her bottle to mine and mutters, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

I don’t smile. Not even a twitch. My gut tightens like a live wire, already bracing for the first hit—because when the Reaper shows up, blood follows. Always.