I nod, but my throat is already closing up.
Chance’s large, hot palm moves to my cheek, drawing me out of my momentary terror, and when I refocus on him, he smiles, leaning closer and letting his lips brush mine. Soft at first, then my lips part and his tongue strokes into my mouth, the kiss deepening until it feels like he’s trying to brand the memory into both of us.
I go up on my tiptoes, leaning into him and kissing him back with everything I have, silently begging him not to take any unnecessary risks. Finally, someone clears their throat beside us, and Chance slows the kiss and pulls away.
“I’ll come back for you,” he whispers. “I promise.”
I nod, pretending to believe him, but right now, promises feel as fragile as glass. Neither of us knows what’s coming our way.
Chance steps back, those eyes intent on mine for another beat before he turns. His sharp features fall into shadow as his hands curl into fists at his sides, muscles bunching under his shirt.
Dillon steals my attention from Chance’s retreating form when he kisses my cheek, quick, playful, softer than he’s ever touched me. “The door locks from the inside. You’ll see the feeds. We’ll keep these assholes away from you.”
He sends me a smirk that lacks his usual confidence, but I don’t let on that I notice. “Hey, try to have some fun in there, okay? We plan on putting on a good show for you and there are snacks. If I’m not mistaken, there may even be popcorn.”
I chuckle softly, lifting my hand to rake it through his sandy hair as I take a step closer to him, not missing the way he leans his head into my touch. “Be safe out there, please. Follow Chance’s lead and look out for one another.”
“We always do,” Boone answers while stepping in and giving kissing my temple. “The all-clear code is ‘Miracle.’” He looks intently into my eyes. “Do not open that door for anyone or anything until you hear one of us give that code.”
My eyebrows lift. “Miracle?”
He nods once. “It’s what we’ve started calling the babies.”
That one sentence nearly takes me down. I’m barely even ten weeks along, and the real miracle is that all three men love these tiny people-to-be like they already have names, faces, and whole futures to protect.
Chance strides back over to us. He motions me backward until I’m inside the safe room, then hits the panel without another word.
Immediately, the door starts moving, sealing me in with a heavy thud and cutting off every sight and sound from outside. The world shrinks to steel walls, recycled air, and four monitors showing the house from different angles.
My hands shake as I stare at the screens, but already, my men are moving like they were born for this. Boone strides through the living room with his shoulders squared and his jaw locked.
Controlled. Efficient. A fighter who knows exactly how much violence it takes to end this threat.
Chance crouches behind the kitchen island, checking sight lines from every window with a cold, stoic kind of detachment.
Dillon scans the cameras on his tablet, muttering but focused. He looks like he’s gearing up to play some high-stakes video game he fully intends to win.
A few minutes later, I sit down in front of the bank of monitors, one hand pressed to my stomach, the other braced against the table as I lean forward. Five attackers appear on one of the screens, approaching through the trees with their tactical gear dark against the snow.
When the first window shatters, I flinch so hard I nearly fall off the chair. Boone is in motion practically in the same second, lunging, pivoting, and slamming the attacker into the wall with brutal precision.
He disarms him in seconds and takes him down with a strike that makes my stomach turn. I’ve never seen him fight before, and I haven’t even looked up any of his old videos, but just that one move makes it absolutely crystal clear why he’s still widely hailed as one of the best in the Hall of Fame.
Chance fires at the second man the instant he appears in the open window, one clean shot to the leg. Disabling, but not deadly. Even in the chaos, it looks like he remembers the lines he doesn’t want to cross.
Pride swells in my chest even though my lungs burn, watching it all happen on a screen I can’t reach through. Three more men burst through the patio doors and glass explodes across the hardwood.
Dillon drops behind the dining table, a surprisingly competent soldier as he fires controlled shots.
Chance is pinned behind the couch.
Bullets tear through the cushions and he dives behind the armchair just in time, cursing.
My men are fighting for their lives and for our babies. For me. And all I’m doing is sitting in a reinforced box, praying the door holds.
But then I see him.
A sixth attacker I missed on the monitors moves like a shadow behind Boone, quiet and deliberate. His rifle lifts, aimed at the back of Boone’s skull, and my body doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait for my brain to catch up.
