Page 21 of The Chief (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #3)

He looked like he wanted to pace but stayed rooted. “It wasn’t just the language. It was the way you repeated it. Your memory didn’t just recall the words. It repeated the cadence. That’s trained. That’s embedded.”

Titus’s voice cut through the room, absolute and final.

His posture didn’t shift, but the energy around him did, tightening, focusing.

He didn’t look at Cade or Zane. Just Elise.

The words that followed were for her alone.

“Whatever you overheard, it wasn’t random.

Someone brought a code drop to your wedding, Elise. And we need to know why.”

She lifted her chin, cautious. “I remember phrases. Not context.”

“That’s what we need,” Titus said. “Start from the beginning. The exact moment you realized you were hearing something you shouldn’t. The exact moment you tuned in to the conversation.”

She hesitated.

Zane took a step forward, his arms folding as if to cage his temper. “We’ve already traced two routes back to that corridor. One of them leads to the exact hallway where a security agent was found unconscious, his weapon missing, his comms cut. The other ends in you.”

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You think I planned this?”

Zane’s mouth curved, hard and mean. “I think you were there. And I think your memory’s not just some party trick. It’s a weapon. You might not realize it, but people have been killed for less.”

He paused just long enough for the implication to land, then added, “Whether you meant to be involved or not doesn’t change the fact that you were in the blast radius. And we’re still counting casualties.”

Cade hadn’t said a word. But the air was thickening around him, charged with something primal.

He stood just to the side, a statue carved in fury and restraint, every muscle held tight as a tripwire.

His hands fisted and relaxed again. Once.

Twice. And still he didn’t speak. But the temperature in the room had shifted, like the pull of a coming storm.

The kind that didn’t just break. It shattered.

She didn’t look away. “So what you’re telling me,” she said, measuring each word, “is that what I remember could either expose a planned shipment or stop something worse from happening. Cost lives or save them.”

Her voice stayed calm, but her pulse didn’t. It thudded behind her ribs, deep and rising.

Titus gave a single nod. “Exactly. So, let’s start there.” He stepped closer. Not threatening. Just pressing. “What did you hear?”

Elise recited the phrases, the Russian, the English, each clipped sentence she could recall. Her tone was flat, exact. Like hitting play on a recorder.

“Peremestite gruz. Vso dolzhno byt’ zakoncheno do voskresen’ya. Nikto ne dolzhen znat’ — osobenno Dantes.”

Cade repeated in English: “Move the cargo. It all has to be done by Sunday. No one can know—especially the Dantes.”

Orders. Plain and coded, layered in implication. Not dramatic on their own, but exact. Not something you say out loud at a wedding unless you’re hiding something. And definitely not meant to be overheard. Especially when spoken in Russian.

Titus didn’t react. But Zane did. He pushed off the wall and came closer.

“You remember all of that?” Zane stepped in closer, voice edged like glass. “Every syllable? Word for word? Do you speak Russian?”

Elise didn’t blink. “I remember all of that. Every syllable. Word for word. And no, I don’t speak Russian.”

Zane’s lip curled. “Most people would forget half a sentence under that kind of pressure. You repeated an entire sequence like it was tattooed on your tongue.” He looked her up and down, like he was hunting for a weak point. “That’s not recall. That’s programming.”

Elise raised her chin. “I remember it exactly.”

“No way. That’s not normal,” Zane said.

“Neither is being shot the day after my wedding.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s familiar.” Her smile cut like a razor. “Men with secrets. Men with guns. Men pretending to be protectors when they’re really just guards.”

Zane took a step closer, anger flaring. “How do we know this wasn’t you? That this wasn’t some Severin setup?”

Elise’s vision tunneled. She stepped forward without thinking, chin lifted in defiance, her branded hand rising, not to strike, but to make a point.

She held it between them like a badge, like a weapon.

Let him look. Let him remember exactly who she was bound to.

Who had claimed her in blood and fire. Her glare was ice-edged, daring him to take another step, daring him to forget what that mark meant.

“A Severin setup? Because if it had been,” she said softly, “you’d already be dead.”

“Enough,” Cade growled.

But Zane ignored him. “Maybe you were supposed to die too. Clean up the evidence.”

Elise’s chest heaved. The heat, the fire, the ache of memory blooming behind her eyes, built bit by bit.

“Zane,” Cade warned, sharply.

“No,” Zane snapped. “We don’t get to pretend this is just a recovery room.

” He stabbed a finger in Elise’s direction.

“That’s a Severin. With a perfect memory.

Who just repeated a sequence of phrases that mirrors black-ops structure.

Not exact. But damn close. Close enough to trigger some serious alerts. ”

Titus moved then, purposeful and unhurried. “Cade, stand down. We need to hear the rest.”

“You want to interrogate my wife,” Cade said, voice deathly quiet, “do it from outside that door.”

Zane laughed. “You going to throw us out?”

Cade crossed the room in a blink. Grabbed Zane by the shirt and slammed him into the wall.

“Don’t make me do it again,” he hissed.

Titus raised his hands. Not in surrender, but in temporary truce.

“If she remembers something else, we’ll deal with it then. But I won’t let her be poked or pushed or second-guessed until she’s ready.” He stepped back, facing them now. “You’ll get what you need. But not here. And sure as hell not while she’s bleeding.”

He shifted closer to Elise, protective without touching her, but his presence a source of reassurance. “She’s my wife. You want answers? You’ll have them. But they come through me. When I say she’s ready. And not a moment before.”

Zane looked to Titus, silently asking if he was really going to let Cade call the shots. But Titus didn’t hesitate. He gave a single nod, directed at Cade. A signal of trust, or maybe concession. Either way, it meant the room—and Elise—now belonged to her husband.

“Then we’re clear. She stays, you go. Now, get the hell out.”

Zane muttered something under his breath, sharp and clipped, but Cade ignored it. He stood like a sentry while his brother left the room.

Titus lingered half a beat longer. Met Cade’s eyes. ”We’ll be waiting,” he said. “And Cade? Don’t wait too long.”

Then he was gone. And the silence left behind was absolute.

OUTSIDE IN the hall, Zane’s fist smashed into the wall. “He’s out of control.”

Titus didn’t flinch. “He’s exactly as he should be.”

Zane paced like a caged predator. “She could be lying.”

“She’s not.”

“You trust her memory?”

“I trust the Dante brand that’s glowing on her skin. And I trust the man who’d kill us both if we pushed her too far.”

Zane looked to Titus, exasperated. “You’re really letting him take point on this?”

Titus met his gaze squarely. “I’m letting him protect what’s his. And I trust him to know where her breaking point is better than either of us.”

Zane didn’t answer. Just ground his molars and looked away.

Titus stood still for a long beat. Then said, quieter now, “If she remembers something else—something actionable—we need to be ready. Because it means this wasn’t just an overheard phrase.

It means someone brought a threat to our doorstep.

And Cade’s the only one she’ll let take her back through it. ”

THE DOOR slammed behind them.

The silence left in their wake was so total, it rang in her ears like an aftershock.

Not peace. Never that. It was the kind that follows upheaval.

That settles like ash in the corners. That tasted of restraint and aftermath.

Like something essential had been broken, and left in plain sight.

She didn’t breathe at first. Neither did Cade.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Elise’s breath trembled in her throat. She expected rage. Or blame. Or cold cunning.

Instead, he came to her cautiously, as if she were made of glass. As if he were afraid of breaking her.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t touch.

Not yet.

He just looked at her. Long and quiet. Saw through every shield she hadn’t realized she was still wearing. Saw pain, pride, defiance, and all the fear she couldn’t name. And then, so softly she almost didn’t hear it, like a secret meant only for her:

“Say it.”

She knew what he meant. Not just with her mind, but with her body.

The way her breath faltered. The way her skin prickled under his stare.

She knew he was asking for the thing she feared most, the truth that hadn’t fully surfaced.

The memory still laced in shadow. And the moment she said it out loud, they’d both be changed. Forever.

The words uncoiled in her throat. ”In sanguine scripsi.” The words were the last thing she’d heard from the two men at her wedding reception.

His jaw flexed once, so very tight. Not with rage, but with resolve.

Like every muscle was rallying to keep him from launching into war on her behalf.

His breath hissed out from between his teeth, restrained, but only just. As if even exhaling was a battle to keep from shattering the air between them with fury.

Then he moved.

He stepped in without a word, crossed the distance between them like it cost him something. And then, with the same ferocity he brought to a battlefield—but tempered now into something exquisitely careful—he scooped her up into his arms.

She made a soft sound, not of protest, but shock. His strength was effortless. His grip absolute. But it was the gentleness that undid her, the way his hands avoided the wound, the way his chest curved around her body like a shield.

He lowered her to the bed like she was something sacred. As if the linens weren’t good enough. As if she deserved to be carried and laid down like a queen.

And then, only then, did he follow her down, his movements careful. He didn’t crush her. Didn’t crowd her. He pulled her into his arms with an intimacy that stole her breath. He didn’t speak, just held her there, breath steady, as if the act of being close was its own vow.

Until she whispered, “What does it mean?”

He lifted her hand. The branded one. Unwound her fingers gently.

He cradled her palm in his, rough fingers mapping the edges of the brand like he was retracing a promise, one written in heat, in blood, in pain survived together.

His touch wasn’t tentative. It was possessive. A warrior’s vow sealed through skin.

He pressed his palm to hers.

The heat was instant. Their brands sparked, no light, no flame, but something deeper. Primal. Magnetic. It surged through her skin and a shudder of recognition pulsed along with it, bone-deep and binding. Not visible, but she sensed it, like his soul brushing against hers and claiming its place.

Despite the lingering dread from the kill order still vibrating beneath her skin, her body reacted like it had been waiting for this. Her pulse wasn’t racing. It was pounding, rhythm matched to his, matched to something older than words. A drumbeat in her blood.

Cade’s voice brushed against her skin like a kiss. ”It’s a Dante phrase,” he said. “Latin. It means, ‘I wrote it in blood.’ It’s a signature. A final seal. Once spoken, it can’t be undone.”

Elise’s breath hitched. “What can’t be undone?” she asked, voice unsteady, like the words scraped their way out.

Cade didn’t blink. “It’s a kill order,” he said quietly. “An elite one. Dante-sanctioned. We use it when a threat is personal. When the target isn’t just dangerous, but marked. When the offense cuts so deep it must be answered in blood.”

He met her eyes. “Saying it… it means vengeance is already in motion. The order can’t be pulled back. Can’t be softened. Once it’s spoken, the target’s already dead. They just don’t know it yet.”

Her pulse jumped. A slick, sliding twist of adrenaline rushed her system.

“You think the second man said it… because of me?” she whispered, the words tasting foreign in her mouth. Her throat went dry. The idea took root too fast, too violent, a hook dragging through her gut.

“I think,” Cade said, eyes locked on hers, “he said it about you.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. The truth weighed too heavy in her chest, yet the warmth of his grip held her together, barely.

Then he dipped his head and found her wrist with his mouth, lips sealing over the fluttering pulse like a promise.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a vow. Possession, pure and unrelenting, poured through that single point of contact, claiming her with heat and certainty.

Her breath caught. Her chest rose against his.

“Why?” she asked. “Why do they want me dead?”

“Because someone in that hallway knew you were there. Knew exactly who you were. And knew what you are.” He hesitated, then added, voice harsh: “And because that Latin phrase—that kill order—it changed everything. Once the words were spoken, you became the target. That’s how the order works. It marked you. And Grigor followed it.”

Her eyes stung. “So it was me,” she whispered. “He shot me instead of you.”

Cade didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her, his expression unreadable. ”They didn’t shoot you by mistake, Elise. They shot you because it would break me. Two birds, one bullet.”

Her breath caught, horror and awe tangled in her chest. The moment twisted in her mind, Grigor aiming not at Cade, but at her. Because it would hurt more. Because it would leave a scar no blade could. Because she was the leverage.

Cade didn’t move at first. Just stared at her like he could still see the moment Grigor made that choice, her instead of him. His voice dropped, heavy with promise.

“They shot you because you’re mine.” Then he leaned in, until his mouth brushed her ear. “And as God is my witness, that will never happen again. I swear it.”