The eastern side of the Reapers’ compound was darker than the rest. Fewer lights. Fewer windows. Fewer eyes. Rowan had built this wing himself, a private extension tacked onto the main clubhouse. He called it “security.”
Everyone knew it was about Kellan.
He didn’t want his son anywhere near his men.
Wraith murmured through comms, “No movement. Guard on the west side paused to smoke. You’re clear on the east.”
Good.
I stepped out of the tree line, staying low, moving fast. Grim covered the perimeter behind me. Fuse stayed back by the fence in case everything went sideways and we had to run.
The addition loomed ahead—two stories of siding and reinforced framing, with a small balcony on the upper level.
“West guard heading back,” Wraith whispered. “You’ve got a gap. Make it count.”
I reached the short retaining wall under the balcony and braced my hands on the rough stone. The climb wasn’t hard, but it needed to be silent.
I pulled myself up slow, boots finding holds on the siding, muscles working in a steady burn.
Halfway up, I stopped and listened.
Nothing.
No voices. No footsteps. No dogs. Just the distant hum of the main building and the soft buzz of a security light.
The compound was unnervingly still. Like the whole place was holding its breath.
I finished the climb and got a hand on the balcony rail, swinging over and landing without a sound. The sliding glass door in front of me was closed, curtains half-drawn.
And unlocked.
Of course it was. Rowan protected Kellan by isolating him, not by teaching him to protect himself. Or to lock doors, apparently.
I eased it open an inch at a time.
The room inside was dark except for a small lamp glowing in the corner like a nightlight. The air was warmer here, carrying the soft sound of breathing.
I stepped in and let my eyes adjust.
The room was neat. Simple. Bed made. Clothes folded on a chair. Books stacked beside the nightstand. A small diffuser glowed on a shelf, sending out a faint, warm scent.
Kellan Roe lay sprawled on the mattress, face buried in his pillow, one leg kicked out from under the blanket like he couldn’t decide if he was hot or cold. He wore soft sleep shorts and afitted T-shirt that had ridden up just enough to show a strip of his lower stomach.
And Jesus.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
His hair was soft blond, mussed from sleep. Freckles dusted the bridge of his nose. His lips were full—too full—and parted slightly as he exhaled. Long legs, lean muscle, slim waist.
He was… beautiful.
In a way that punched straight under my ribs.
My fingers curled at my sides.
This was not part of the plan.
I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. Not interest. Not heat. Not this sharp, instant awareness that made my pulse jump.
