Hansen watches silently from the kitchen doorway, and when his gaze meets mine there's understanding in it.
Supplies appear without anyone being asked. A cardboard box lined with an old towel, a heating pad someone digs out of storage, even a small bowl of water.
Megan settles on the couch with the kitten tucked in the box beside her, the heating pad warm beneath the towel, and she strokes its tiny head with one finger while it shivers less violently and starts to settle. I watch her face soften in a way I haven't seen yet, something opening up that's been locked down tight since the moment she stumbled through the door last night.
Grave ambles over and looks down at the kitten, arms crossed but expression neutral. "What're you gonna call him?"
Megan hesitates, then glances at me briefly before looking back at the kitten. "Bullet," she says quietly. "Because he's small and fast and he survived."
The name lands perfectly, and I see approval ripple through the room in subtle nods and quiet grunts.Bullet. It fits the culture here, and the fact that Megan chose it tells me she understands more about this place than I thought.
I settle into the chair beside her, close enough that our knees almost touch, and she leans into the armrest slightly, angling toward me without quite realizing she's doing it.
Bullet curls tighter in the box, breathing evening out, and the tension that's been living in Megan's shoulders finally starts to ease.
I'm still watching Megan, noticing the way firelight catches in her hair and softens the exhaustion in her face, when Luke appears at my shoulder, moving quietly enough that I almost don't hear him.
"Morgan," he says, voice low and urgent. "We've got a problem."
I stand immediately, tension snapping back into place, and follow him to the window where Miller is already standing, arms crossed, gaze fixed on something outside.
Luke points toward the tree line at the edge of the property, and it takes me a second to spot what he's seeing—a single figure on a bike, half-hidden in shadow, watching the clubhouse from a distance that's too close to be accidental.
"Scout," Miller says flatly. "Deadwood colors. Been there for about ten minutes."
My jaw tightens, and I feel the shift in my thinking again, calculating response times and threat levels.
The scout isn't attacking, isn't moving, just observing, which means he's gathering information to take back to whoever sent him. And if he's this close, if he's bold enough to sit in sight of the clubhouse in broad daylight, it means Deadwood isn't worried about consequences.
Hansen appears beside us without being called, his presence commanding. He doesn't ask questions, just assesses and makes a decision.
"Miller, take Grave and Cole. Move him off the property. No violence unless he starts it, but make it clear he's not welcome."
Miller nods once and moves toward the door, Grave and Cole falling in behind him without needing further instruction. The three of them disappear outside, engines roaring to life moments later, and through the window I watch them peel out toward the tree line where the scout sits.
The figure doesn't move immediately, watching them approach with the kind of stillness that says he's not surprised.
Then, just before Miller's bike reaches him, the scout kicks his engine to life and pulls away, disappearing into the trees.
I watch until he's gone, until the woods are empty again except for snow and shadows, and feel the weight of inevitability settle deeper. Deadwood isn't just probing anymore, they're pushing, and that means whatever's coming is closer than I thought.
Hansen turns to me, his expression unreadable but his voice certain. "She doesn't leave your sight."
"She won't," I say.
He nods once and walks away, already moving on to the next problem, and I return to where Megan is still sitting with Bullet sleeping peacefully in his box. She looks up when I approach, and I see the question in her eyes before she asks it.
"What's happening?"
I crouch beside the couch, close enough that I can speak quietly without the whole room hearing. "We had a visitor. Deadwood scout, watching the clubhouse. He's gone now, but it means they're getting bolder."
Her face pales slightly. "What does that mean for me?"
"It means you're staying close," I tell her, and I'm aware of how my hand has settled on the back of the couch near her shoulder, not touching but close. "It means we don't take chances until we know what they want."
What I don’t say is that sometimes the safest move is letting the enemy think you’ve made a mistake.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, searching for something I hope she finds, and then she nods slowly. "Okay."
