Rowan stumbled as he reached the bottom step, and Gael, the bastard, caught it. He said the first thing that popped into his head to get Gael’s mind off the trajectory it was on. “Mercier called…”
“Huh?” Gael blinked a double-take. “That’s not what I expected you to say…”
Rowan glared at him. “War-room. Five minutes. Get the others.”
“Uh. Sure.” Gael didn’t move. “She staying or going?”
The question walloped him a sucker punch, and Rowan followed his brother’s gaze to the truck. “She’s not ready to go home,” he said quietly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Rowan narrowed his eyes and snarled. “I know what you fucking asked.”
Gael held his hands up, but the smirk playing at his lips said he’d already won this round. “Just making sure you do, too. Five minutes, you said?”
Rowan didn’t bother watching him go. Instead, he turned back to the truck and rested his forearm on the open window frame. Enya didn’t look at him, but her fingers stilled on the box. “You good?” he asked.
She nodded, but the set of her shoulders said otherwise. “I’ll, uh… I’ll find something to do.”
“Enya.” Her name on his lips made her finally turn, her eyes meeting his. There was fear there, but something else, too—something fiercer. Determination edged with more than a little stubbornness, both of which were braced by a whole lot of strength. “You’re not in the way,” he said. “But if you’d rather not be around for this?—”
“I’d rather not be sent away,” she cut in, her voice steady. “I can handle it.”
Rowan studied her for a long moment before nodding. “Alright. But if you change your mind while I’m gone, just let Gael or Theo know, and they’ll get you…um…home.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I was kinda starting to think that’s what The Stronghold is starting to feel like...” Wariness flickered in her eyes. “I mean, that’s weird, right?”
No darlin’, it’s not weird, it’s fucking epic.
“Not to me.” He had to force himself to step back before he did something stupid, like lean in and taste her mouth once again. Instead, he helped her out of the truck, took the pie box, shut the door, and turned toward the house. Not a moment too soon, as he could see the rest of his men coming up the yard from the barn.
“Go do what you got to do.” Enya took the pies from him as soon as they were in the kitchen. “I’ll sort some food and stuff. Just let me know about half an hour before you are ready for it, okay?”
“Will do.” Flipping the switch from the thrill of a budding relationship to the thrill of a budding mission wasn’t something Rowan had ever struggled with… until now. He paused at the kitchen door and glanced over his shoulder.
“Enya?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks…um…” He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. Thanks for not freaking out? Thanks for the kisses? Thanks for everything? There were so many options and not a single one of them sounded quite right. “Just thanks.”
“I don’t know what for,” she gifted him with the softest of smiles, “but you’re welcome. Go do your thing, cowboy. I’ve got this.” She gestured to the kitchen.
“Okay.” He tapped his hand on the doorframe. What else was there to say?
Mission.
Job.
Work.
Focus, damn it.
He made his way down the hall to the back of the house, and the war-room that hadn’t always been a war-room. Once, it had been a room that his momma had filled with fabric and quilting supplies. The window framed a view of the east pasture, golden in the afternoon sun, where the wind ripplingthrough the tall grass was something both Gael and he used to remind themselves they had a bolt hole, a stronghold to retreat to when shit hit the fan, and war fighting was rough on their souls. Before this room became the war-room, it had been their momma’s haven, but she’d given it to them, so they would have a space to build their business from the ground up. But that was before. Before the missions, the wars, and the weight of all they had done and would do in the name of their flag, country, and teammates.
Now, the space bore no resemblance to what it had once been. The walls were lined with screens—some dark, some flickering with static, others alive with feeds from places no civilian would ever see. Maps overlapped one another like layers of history, each one marked with routes and symbols that meant nothing to an outsider but everything to the men who gathered here. Topographic lines snaked across one, satellite images blurred another, and a third was nearly obscured by grease pencil scrawls and notes in a language only they understood. The weapons lockers lining one wall were always locked but always in reach. The table once again sat in the center of the room. An altar to the battles they’d fought and the lives they’d saved. The wood was pocked with knife marks, the remnants of impatient blades tapping against the surface during long hours of planning. Burn rings from forgotten coffees and half-empty glasses left their own stories, each one a silent testament to the nights they’d spent hunched over blueprints and intel, waiting for the order to move. This was where Stronghold the ranch ended and Stronghold the war fighters began.
Rowan stepped through the door, and the familiar weight of command settled over him like a second skin—thick, unshakable, a reminder of who he was when he wasn’t just a rancher. The hum of the screens was a low, constant pulsebeneath the murmur of his men’s voices. He didn’t need to look to know everyone was already here. He could feel them, the way a predator senses the shift in the wind before the hunt.
