THUMP.
I jolted.
Wolf didn’t.
He went still.
Every muscle coiled.
Breath held.
Then—
SCRATCH.
Long.
Slow.
Right outside the bedroom door.
My blood went cold.
Wolf’s arm tightened around me, not in fear—
in warning.
He whispered, voice barely audible:
“Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
I froze against him, breath shallow.
Another scratch.
Closer.
Wolf eased away from me with soundless precision. He reached beneath the bed where he’d stashed his handgun hours earlier. His fingers wrapped around it silently.
He stood without turning on a light.
Without breathing loudly.
Without fear.
This was Wolf in mission mode—every sense sharp, every movement lethal.
I swallowed hard. “Wolf…” I whispered.
He lifted a hand. Stay.
My chest squeezed tight.
CLICK.
The doorknob turned.
Not pushed.
