Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
“Fuck—fuck—there it is. So fucking good. So tight—gonna come inside you, baby. Gonna fill this greedy little pussy up.”
His thrusts turn wild, sloppy, hips slamming into mine as he chases his own release. Then he buries himself to the hilt, body locking tight against me, and I feel the hot, thick pulses of him spilling deep inside.
He shudders above me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting, wrecked, trembling.
For a long moment neither of us moves.
Then he kisses me slow, filthy, possessive—like he’s branding me from the inside out.
“Mine,” he whispers against my swollen lips.
And God help me, I believe him.
I’m breathing hard, cheeks hot, lips sore in the best way.
Crewe’s arm tightens around me, pulling me against him with a quiet possessiveness that makes me feel claimed in the safest way.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod, curling my hand against his chest. “Yeah.”
His breath brushes my hair. “Get some sleep.”
I snort softly. “After that?”
He lets out a low chuckle, and the sound makes my heart soften all over again. “I’ll keep watch,” he murmurs.
“You can’t keep watch if you don’t sleep.”
“I can.”
I tip my head up, press a quick kiss to his mouth—gentle, sweet, a promise. “Then at least pretend to rest.”
He kisses my forehead again. “Yes, ma’am.”
I smile into his chest, eyes closing.
Outside, the world is a mystery.
Inside, Crewe holds me like he’s built for this too.
And I drift off thinking one impossible thought that scares me more than any threat:
I’m not just falling into danger.
I might be falling for him.
ELEVEN
CREWE
I wake up before the sun.
Habit. Training. The kind of wiring that doesn’t shut off just because I’m warm and there’s a woman tucked against my chest like she belongs there.
Riley is curled on her side, facing me, her soft-brown hair spilled across my arm. Her mouth is slightly parted in sleep, lashes resting on her cheeks.
My hand flexes at her waist, careful not to wake her. I don’t want to move.
I also don’t trust peace.
I slide out of bed slowly.
Riley makes a small sound—more protest than wakefulness—and my chest tightens like I’ve done something wrong. I pause, watching her. She doesn’t wake. She just burrows into the pillow, pulling the blanket closer like she’s chasing heat I left behind.
I stand there for a beat longer than necessary.
Then I grab my phone and step into the kitchen area.
The fire has burned down to coals. The cabin is cold at the edges. I check the cameras out of reflex—snow, trees, empty road, nothing moving.
Good.
My phone buzzes with unread messages from the brothers’ thread, but there’s only one person I want right now.
I hit Nash’s name and call.
It rings once.
Twice.
He answers like he’s been waiting.
“Crewe.”
His voice is low. Controlled. Awake.
“Talk,” I say, quieter than I mean to be.
Nash exhales. “You alone?”
“Riley’s asleep. I’m up.”
“Good.” A pause. “I needed to hear your voice.”
My jaw tightens. Nash doesn’t do sentiment unless it matters.
“What do you have?” I ask.
“Enough to make me sick,” he says. “And enough to make me sure.”
I lean against the kitchen counter, eyes on the dark window. “You said Dad might be alive.”
“He is.”
The words hit like a fist to the ribs.
I go still. “Don’t do that. Don’t say it like that unless you can prove it.”
“I can,” Nash says, and the steadiness in his tone is worse than panic would be. “We pulled a transmission. Encrypted. Old frequency. Not something that should’ve been active in years. Maddox has someone who knows how to find ghosts. They found one.”
My throat works. “A transmission from Dad?”
“Not a full voice file,” Nash says. “But a coded burst. A call-and-response pattern. Something only one person we know used to sign off with. It’s him, Crewe.”
I close my eyes for a second.
Seventeen years old again, standing on a porch in Valor Springs, listening to Mom cry in the kitchen while Nash stares out at the dark like he can see the truth hiding in it.
“They never found a body,” I say, more to myself than him.
“No,” Nash replies. “Because there wasn’t one.”
My chest tightens, sharp and painful. “Where is he?”
“We don’t know yet,” Nash says. “But we know he’s alive, and we know he’s in trouble.”
I grip the phone harder. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that makes a man disappear for years,” Nash says. “The kind that makes him go silent. The kind that makes people lie about a death.”
I stare at the floor like it might keep me upright.
A wild goose chase. That’s what this sounds like. A trap. A rumor. A hope that will wreck us all over again.
But Nash doesn’t chase rumors.
He chases truth like it’s oxygen.
“Why are you telling me now?” I ask.
“Because I need you,” he says simply. “And because you’re almost out.”
My jaw flexes. “My contract’s close to done.”
“I know,” Nash says. “You can take an honorable discharge if you want it. You can come on board.”