Havoc simply nodded once.
Because they all understood:
For the first time, this wasn’t just a mission.
It was personal.
25
Nora
Iwoke to the sound of footsteps.
Not hurried.
Not loud.
But purposeful.
The kind of footsteps that didn’t belong in a place where men usually joked, bickered, or stomped around like they were still in combat boots.
These were quiet.
Controlled.
Alert.
I blinked, the room still dark, the sheets warm from Wolf’s body heat. The impression of him remained in the mattress—solid, steady, protective—even though he wasn’t beside me anymore.
My chest tightened.
Not from fear.
From the sudden, acute ache of missing him the second he stepped away.
Another sound drifted in.
A soft murmur of voices down the hall.
Low. Urgent. Serious.
I pushed the covers back and sat up, rubbing my eyes. The nightmare felt like it had happened hours ago, but my pulse quickened all over again.
Something was wrong.
I stood and padded to the door, cracking it open just enough to see the hallway.
Wolf stood near the window at the end of the hall, half in shadow, half in the weak glow from the streetlamp outside. Trigger, Havoc, and Saint flanked him, all stone-faced, all studying the monitors and the dark street below with a tension so thick it raised the hairs on my arms.
Wolf’s posture was rigid—shoulders squared, jaw flexed, hand resting on the weapon holstered at his hip.
Every inch of him radiated the same message:
Danger. Close.
Before I could stop myself, my voice slipped out:
“Wolf?”
