And then more follow, each one carrying that same quiet, controlled energy that tells me they belong out there in the dark just as much as they do in here.
“Damn,” one of them mutters as he steps inside, his gaze landing squarely on me. “You weren’t kidding.”
I cross my arms instinctively. “About what?”
His mouth curves. “Trouble.”
I glare at him. “That seems to be the theme.”
A low chuckle moves through the room, but it fades quickly as Ethan steps in behind them and shuts the door with a solid thud.
“Focus,” he says.
The word lands like a command, and the shift is immediate.
The man with the sharp eyes nods once. “Tracks?”
“East ridge,” Ethan replies. “Moving in tighter.”
“How close?” another asks.
“Close enough.”
Silence follows, heavy and purposeful, and I watch them, trying to piece it together, trying to understand what I have just stepped into.
This is not casual.
This is not a favor.
This is something else entirely.
A unit.
“Who are they?” I ask.
Ethan’s gaze flicks to me. “Backup.”
“That’s not an answer.”
The one with the smirk steps forward, offering his hand. “Hudson.”
I do not take it.
He does not seem offended.
“Flint,” the sharp-eyed one adds with a short nod.
“Zane.”
“Slate.”
They introduce themselves like this is normal, like men walking out of the woods in the middle of the night is something I should not question.
I glance at Ethan. “You always call in an army?”
“Only when it matters.”
That answer lands differently this time.
