Page 6

DEACON

S he brushes past me, still simmering with tension so thick it could burn through steel.

Her body stays taut as a drawn wire, and every step she takes feels like it's pulling that pressure tighter. She doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t need to. The air between us is already charged, heavy with what we didn’t let happen.

I head over to the neighbor's driveway and move the Range Rover to Sutton's drive. Once I'm back inside, I lock the door behind me and take stock of the wreckage again, my mind ticking through what it means. The break-in, the message, the way they rifled through everything and took nothing.

She stands in the kitchen, arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s holding her center together with sheer will.

Her nails dig into her elbows, knuckles white, like if she lets go, everything inside might spill out.

There’s a tremble in her shoulders she doesn’t want me to see.

But I see it anyway. I see the fight not to crumble.

The need to be strong. The raw ache she won’t voice, not even now.

And something in me knots tighter, knowing she shouldn’t have to carry this alone.

"I’m going to double check the second floor," I say, voice low but firm. "Make sure nothing’s changed. Stay put."

She gives me a look like she might ignore me just to make a point, but after a beat, she nods. I head up first, rechecking the second floor with quick, practiced sweeps—closets, corners, under the beds—making sure I didn’t miss anything.

I descend the stairs, each step echoing with the weight of the tension still hanging in the air.

When I reach the bottom, she’s right there in the kitchen where I left her—motionless, arms still tight around herself like she’s holding together what little calm she has left.

The silence between us isn’t relief. It’s a pressure chamber, sealed and swelling, waiting for the next spark to ignite it.

Her gaze meets mine, steady and sharp, like she’s daring me to question her composure.

And I do.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

She straightens. "I’m not one of your men, Ranger. I don’t take orders from you."

I move in close, not touching, but close enough that she has to tilt her chin up to keep my gaze. Her scent hits me hard—warm, sharp, citrus and something sweeter underneath. Infuriating. Irresistible.

"You’re not one of my team," I growl, low and steady, "but you are in danger. That means what happens to you is my problem."

Her eyes narrow. "That sounds like your jurisdiction, not mine."

Jesus. "You were supposed to be the footnote in this case. The accidental witness who got lucky, stayed the hell out of the way, and lived to tell the tale. But you’re not just a witness anymore, are you? Whoever broke in wasn’t here for your jewelry."

"Ya think?" she says with a dry smile, "Thanks for the insight."

I drag in a breath through my nose, slow and sharp. Losing my temper won’t help. But hell if she doesn’t make it feel like the only damn option. Her mouth, that tone—each word like a lit match daring me to burn. I clamp down hard on the urge to explode and level my voice instead.

She walks past me, stepping over the debris on the floor like it doesn’t gut her to see her home turned inside out. Rush may have given me the sketch out at the ranch, but even on paper, her focus cut through—cool, sharp, deliberate. Like someone who doesn't rattle easy.

Seeing her now? That sketch didn’t lie. It was her precision, her eye for detail, that caught my attention before I ever saw her in person. She should be shaking. But she’s not. She’s plotting. I'm not sure whether or not that's a good thing.

I trail her into the living room, the tension between us stretching taut as wire.

The moment feels like the calm before a storm neither of us knows how to stop.

I grab the duffel from where I left it just inside the front door and sling it over my shoulder.

I drop it onto the couch with a solid thud, like staking a claim.

My eyes scan the space—eclectic, artistic, a little chaotic.

An overstuffed armchair in worn indigo linen.

A floor lamp made from salvaged driftwood.

Paintings on the walls that aren’t mass-produced prints, but originals, thick with brushstrokes and emotion.

There’s a worn warmth to it, the kind that says someone fought for this peace.

Lived in it. Breathed in it. It smells like her too—vanilla, citrus, something earthy that gets under your skin.

It suits her. And I’m not going anywhere.

She raises a brow. "You’re moving in?"

"Yep, at least until we know what we’re dealing with."

"Guest room is upstairs."

"Nope. I sleep between you and the front door."

She blinks. "That’s not necessary."

I level her with a look. "It is. And it’s not up for discussion."

She exhales slowly, arms crossing in a calm, deliberate motion—more measured defiance than petulance. "You’re real big on commands for someone who was never invited in the first place."

"And you’re real big on ignoring danger until it kicks in your front door and wrecks your house."

Silence stretches, taut and crackling.

She breaks it first. "Fine. You want to play bodyguard? Knock yourself out. Just don’t expect me to fetch you a blanket."

I grin. "I wasn’t planning on sleeping."

That earns me a flush in her cheeks she tries to hide by turning away. I don’t miss it.

I take a step closer, lowering my voice. "Tell me again what happened. Everything. From the top."

She sighs, quiet but resolved, and heads into the kitchen with her steps a little steadier than before.

At the fridge, she pulls out a bottle of water, the plastic crinkling in her grip as if she needs something to do with her hands.

I follow, planting myself at the island, arms folded—not just watching her, but anchoring the space between us like a line neither of us wants to cross, but both of us might.

She runs through the story—seeing the fake cop, the sketch, the visit to the police. I already know the broad strokes, but the more detail she gives, the clearer the picture becomes. She’s not just a witness. She’s a data processor. A kind of profiler with spreadsheets.

She finishes and turns to me. "Satisfied?"

"Not even close," I say, but softer this time, waggling my eyebrows at her..

She glares at first and then relents and graces me with a smile. She stares at the couch where my duffel sits like it offended her feng shui. "If I wake up and trip over your boots, I’m throwing them out the window."

I take a slow step toward her. "I could always just keep them on or place them under your bed."

Her breath catches. There it is—the spark, hot and sharp. The chemistry between us isn’t new, but here, in her wrecked kitchen, with her walls down and her voice trembling with exhaustion, it feels different. Like something breaking loose.

"You’re not serious," she says, but her voice is husky.

"I’m dead serious. You’re in danger. And you’re under my protection."

"You can protect me from across the hall."

I shake my head. "No. I protect you best right here."

I take one more step and we’re close—too close. She should move. She doesn’t.

Her breath is shallow, her lips parted. I know I shouldn’t. Know it’s a bad idea. But when she lifts her chin, daring me, something primal takes over.

My hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers threading into the soft, tension-knotted strands of her hair.

I tug her forward, not gentle, not hesitant—just need and heat and too many things not yet said.

My mouth crashes against hers, hungry and claiming, a storm I’ve stopped trying to hold back.

She gasps, but there’s no retreat in it—just invitation. Her hands fist in my shirt like she needs to feel something solid, something raw and real. She pulls me in tighter, her body flush with mine, and the feel of her curves pressed against me is a brand I’ll never forget.

Her mouth parts undermine, slick heat, and molten defiance, tasting like spice and challenge and something sweeter that shoots straight to my bloodstream. Her tongue meets mine with a bold stroke, not tentative—claiming. Demanding.

I groan into her mouth, the sound low and rough, because this isn’t just a kiss. It’s a battle, a bargain, a goddamn detonation. She’s fire and steel wrapped in velvet skin, and I want to burn in her.

The kiss hits like a detonation—raw, consuming, a firestorm ignited the moment our mouths collide.

My hand tightens in her hair, holding her just where I need her, and she meets me with every ounce of heat I’ve been holding back.

Her lips are soft but unyielding, and when her tongue slides against mine, it’s not tentative. It’s a dare.

She moans into my mouth, a low, helpless sound that shoots straight to my cock.

Her hands grip my shoulders, then my waist, like she doesn’t know whether to shove me away or drag me closer.

My body answers for her, pinning her lightly between me and the counter.

Her breath hitches as I press in, my hips angled just enough that she feels every inch of what she does to me.

There’s no finesse, no slow build—just need crashing into need. Her teeth catch my bottom lip, and I growl, deep and dark, before taking her mouth again with even more force. She kisses like she argues—fierce, clever, completely unafraid. And fuck, it turns me inside out.

I kiss her like a man starved. Like she’s the only thing that’s ever tasted right. The only thing that could bring me to my knees and make me beg for more.

When I finally pull back, our breaths come in ragged bursts, mixing in the charged air between us.

Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, lips parted and swollen, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pulls.

My own heart hammers in my ribs, blood roaring hot beneath my skin.

We stare at each other, not confused but stunned—like the ground just gave way beneath us and neither of us knows where solid begins again.

Her fingers are still tangled in my shirt, my hand still cradling her neck, and it’s not hesitation that holds us in place—it’s awareness.

That we crossed a line we can't uncross. And neither of us wants to.

But we know. The heat between us hasn’t broken—it’s just changed, gone deeper, darker.

We’re breathing the same charged air, our skin still thrumming with contact.

We both know this isn’t over. Not even close.

We’ve only scratched the surface of something dangerous and consuming—and it’s already pulling us under.

She straightens slowly, like a woman gathering her armor piece by piece.

Her eyes don’t waver, and her spine stiffens as if refusing to show even a sliver of vulnerability.

Whatever just passed between us—heat, hunger, power—she folds it away, sealing it behind something cool and composed. But not untouched. Never untouched.

"You don’t get to throw orders at me, kiss me like that, and expect me to roll over, Ranger."

I grin. "Good. I’d be disappointed if you did."

She stares at me, eyes shadowed with something darker than simple attraction—an ache, a question, a challenge. Like she’s trying to decide if I’m the problem or the solution. If I’m the fire, or the one who’ll burn trying to contain hers.

"Get out of my kitchen, Deacon."

"It's an open concept, Sutton."

She shakes her head and moves past me, but not without brushing her fingers across my forearm—a touch light as breath but charged enough to leave a trail of heat in its wake.

It's instinctive, unthinking, the kind of contact that speaks louder than words.

She keeps walking, but that ghost of contact stays with me, branded beneath the skin.

The fire between us isn’t going anywhere.

And the danger outside? It’s not waiting in the shadows anymore...