The door clicked open, and Adam stepped inside. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes raking over me—slow, deliberate. Not the hungry way he had last night, but with something deeper. Something that mixed pride with fear.
“You sure?” he asked. His voice was low, but I caught the tight edge in it.
I lifted my chin. “I’m sure.”
He crossed the room, every step radiating tension, and stopped close enough that the heat of him seeped into my skin. His fingers brushed over my holster, then over the edge of the belt, checking, adjusting—little motions that were more about grounding himself than fixing gear.
“You look like you belong in the fight,” he murmured.
“I do belong,” I said, my hand closing over his.
For a moment, the room was quiet except for the hum of the light and the steady drum of our hearts. His thumb traced my knuckles, his eyes searching mine like he was memorizing me all over again.
“If anything happens to you—” His voice broke, rough.
“Adam.” I touched his face, feeling the stubble scrape against my palm. “We don’t get to live like that anymore. Not apart. Not in fear. We go in together. We come out together.”
His throat worked, but then he kissed me—slow, deep, reverent. The kind of kiss that wasn’t just about want, but about a vow. His forehead pressed to mine when it ended.
“Alright,” he whispered. “Together.”
I smiled faintly, though my chest tightened. “Now quit looking at me like I’m fragile. You’ve seen me take worse hits than this.”
He chuckled low, shaking his head. “You’re hell, Carter. Pure hell.”
I grinned. “And you love me for it.”
The knock at the door broke the moment. Hawk’s voice came through, clipped and steady: “Stoker. Time to move.”
Adam’s hand lingered at my waist for one last heartbeat before he pulled back. “Let’s finish this,” he said.
And just like that, we stepped out of the fragile cocoon of the motel room and back into the storm.
62
Raine
The SUV’s tires hummed against the highway, the world outside a blur of desert and dusk. El Paso was still an hour away, but every mile dragged like we were driving straight into the jaws of something too big to name.
Adam sat beside me in the back seat, broad shoulders tense, one hand resting on his thigh, the other draped casually near mine. He looked calm to anyone else, but I could feel the storm under his skin. His silence wasn’t peace—it was calculation.
Hawk drove, steady hands on the wheel, eyes scanning the horizon like he expected trouble on the open road. Russ rode shotgun, flipping through a thin folder of notes and photos, his calm voice occasionally breaking the silence to murmur details. Blade sat directly behind me, too quiet, the metallic rasp of his knife against a whetstone a steady rhythm in the dark. Logan took the last seat, arms folded, staring out the window, his jaw tight.
I shifted, the seatbelt cutting into my ribs, and tried to ignore the pounding in my chest.
“You okay?” Adam’s low voice brushed against my ear.
“Define okay,” I whispered back.
His mouth curved faintly, though his eyes stayed sharp. “Breathing. Not bolting.”
I exhaled slowly. “Then I guess I’m okay.”
The SUV fell quiet again except for Hawk’s voice breaking in. “Clinic’s off the main drag. Looks small, under the radar. But Russ says their shipments don’t match their footprint. Too many supplies. Too much refrigeration.”
Russ added, calm as ever, “Which means they’re moving product somewhere else. Clinic’s just a front.”
“Or a funnel,” Logan muttered.
