I nodded once, scanning the area he’d indicated. “Sheriff?”
“Notified. ETA eight minutes.”
Eight minutes. A lifetime in combat terms. I could do a lot of damage in eight minutes if necessary.
Movement at the edge of the property caught my attention—shadowy figures emerging from the tree line, silhouettes against the lightening sky. Dennis was in front, his walk uneven, sloppy.
Even from this distance, I could smell the stink of alcohol and hatred rolling off him in waves. The three men flanking him moved with more caution, carrying what looked like crowbars and baseball bats.
Amateur hour. If this wasn’t so deadly serious, I might have laughed.
Dennis spotted us and stumbled to a stop, swaying slightly on his feet. His face twisted in the half-light, hatred distorting features that might once have been handsome before alcohol and rage had carved their permanent marks.
“You ready to die today, Callahan?” he called, voice slurred but carrying clearly in the still morning air. He took an unsteady step forward, pointing an accusatory finger. “Shoulda minded your own business.”
I remained silent, calculating distances and angles, assessing threats. Dennis was drunk enough to be unpredictable, but not so drunk he couldn’t do damage. His friends were sober enough to be genuinely dangerous. Sterling had already melted back into the shadows, positioning himself to flank them if necessary.
Smart. He’d take the ones with weapons. I’d deal with Dennis.
“Nothing to say?” Dennis taunted, stepping closer. The reek of whiskey grew stronger. “Big man when you’re fucking my brother, but not so tough now, huh?”
My fingers tightened around the Glock, but I kept it at my side. Not yet. Wait for them to make the first move. Let them cross the line so what comes next is clearly self-defense.
“That omega whore belongs to me,” Dennis snarled, gesturing wildly toward the house where Danny slept. “My family. My property. You think you can just take what’s mine?”
The words hit me like a physical blow, igniting something dark and dangerous in the pit of my stomach. My vision narrowed, focusing solely on Dennis’s sneering face. The Glock felt heavier in my hand, my finger hovering near the trigger.
But I wouldn’t shoot. Not unless he forced my hand. Because Danny deserved better than a mate who solved problems with bullets when words would do.
So I waited, silent and watchful as the eastern sky began to lighten, as Dennis and his cronies drew closer to the invisible line I’d drawn in my mind.
Come just a little closer, I thought, every muscle in my body coiled and ready. Just a little closer, and I’ll show you exactly who Danny belongs to.
Something had snapped inside me at Dennis’s words. Not visibly—I’d been trained too well for that—but deep in my core, where the darkest parts of me lived. The cold calculation I’d been maintaining evaporated like morning dew under a blowtorch.
I took one deliberate step forward, letting my voice drop to that deadly register I’d perfected in combat situations where I needed someone to understand they were one wrong move from meeting their maker.
“He was never yours,” I growled, each word precise as a knife thrust. “And now he’s carrying my child.”
Dennis’s face contorted, alcohol and rage distorting his features into something barely human. The words hit him like a physical blow—the confirmation that Danny was pregnant, that I had claimed him in the most primal way possible. His eyes bulged, veins standing out on his forehead as spittle flew from his lips.
“You fucking liar!” he screamed, charging forward with all the finesse of a wounded bull.
I sidestepped his rush with practiced ease, years of combat training making his movements seem almost comically slow. His momentum carried him past me, and I pivoted, catching his outstretched arm as he stumbled.
The move was textbook—twist, leverage, redirect. I used Dennis’s own weight and forward motion against him, driving him down to his knees in the dirt with a satisfying thud.
He howled in pain and outrage as I maintained pressure on his wrist, keeping him immobilized with minimal effort. The years of abuse he’d inflicted on Danny, the fear he’d sown, the bruises he’d left—all of it distilled into this pathetic display of drunken rage.
Movement flickered in my peripheral vision—one of Dennis’s friends rushing toward me, crowbar raised above his head. I tensed, calculating whether I could maintain my hold on Dennis while defending against the new threat.
I needn’t have worried.
Sterling emerged from the shadows like a vengeful ghost, intercepting the attacker with terrifying efficiency. There wasno wasted motion, no dramatic flourish—just the cold, precise application of force.
One moment the man was charging, crowbar raised; the next he was face-down in the dirt, arm twisted at an angle nature never intended, weapon forgotten beside him.
Sterling didn’t even look winded. He stepped back, eyes already tracking the remaining two threats.
