Not rattled.
Turned.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Someone was trying to open it.
Wolf moved to the wall beside the door, gun raised, stance ready. His voice was a low, controlled growl meant for me alone:
“If this door opens, get behind the bed. Do not move until I say.”
My pulse thundered in my ears.
From the other side of the door, something brushed against the wood.
A soft thud.
Another scratch.
Weight shifting.
Wolf narrowed his eyes at the doorknob.
It stilled.
Silence.
Then—
KNOCK.
Not loud.
Not frantic.
A single knock.
Soft.
Measured.
Wrong.
Wolf’s voice cut through the air.
“Trigger?” he called quietly.
In the hallway, a beat of silence—
Wolf’s eyes went ice cold.
This wasn’t Trigger.
It wasn’t Saint.
It wasn’t Havoc.
