“Sleep,” Nina murmurs. “Both of you. We’re safe here.”
I want to believe her. I want to close my eyes and let the warmth of them pull me under into something that doesn’t hurt.
For once, I do.
I don’t know what time it is when I wake up.
The storm hasn’t let up—thunder rolling, rain hammering the roof, lightning flickering through the curtains.
Nina’s breathing is soft and even against my chest. Wyatt’s arm is still draped over her, his hand resting on my hip.
Everything is exactly as I left it.
So why am I awake?
I lie still, listening. Training takes over—cataloging sounds, sorting them into categories. Storm: ocean, wind, rain, thunder. House: refrigerator humming, that gutter still dripping, something creaking that could be the structure settling.
Or could be a footstep.
I go rigid, wracking my memory for what it was that drew me out of sleep. The very specific sensation of pressure changing in a well-sealed building when someone opens a door or window. Everything was locked down tight when we went to bed.
My hand finds the weapon I stashed under the bed before we fell asleep. Muscle memory. Caution that would look like paranoia to an outside observer.
There it is again. That sound. Wrong frequency for the storm, wrong rhythm for the house.
Someone’s in the house.
I’m already moving when Nina stirs beside me, her voice sleep-rough and confused: “Chris? What?—”
“Shh.” I put a hand on her arm. Feel Wyatt wake up on the other side, his body going from slack to alert in the space of a heartbeat. “I heard something.”
Lightning flashes. Thunder rolls.
And somewhere in the darkness beyond the bedroom door, I hear it again.
53
Chris
The stairs are a problem.
Fifteen steps, exposed sightlines, no cover. I take them fast and low, Glock up, Wyatt’s footsteps silent behind me. Nina stayed in the bedroom like I told her to—small miracle.
Lightning flashes through the clerestory windows, turning the stairwell into a strobe. White walls, black shadows, everything inverted for a split second before plunging back into nothing.
Another sound. Footsteps. Wet boots on tile.
I flatten myself against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Wyatt mirrors me on the opposite side, moving with the economy of someone who’s done this before. Whatever’s between us, whatever’s broken or healing, none of it matters right now. Right now we’re just two operators clearing a space.
The living room opens up ahead. That massive sectional, the fireplace dark, the wall of glass showing nothing but storm. Rain lashes the windows so hard it sounds like static.
A figure moves in the kitchen.
I track the silhouette, finger finding the trigger guard. The shape is wrong for a threat—too casual, too upright, reaching for something on the counter like they belong here.
The lights come on.
I blink against the sudden brightness, weapon still raised, and find myself staring at Lucia.
