RHETT
Emma Lincoln is going to get herself killed. Not in the poetic, slow-motion, “girl runs into danger because she’s brave” way. But in the brutally predictable way civilians die when they wander into the orbit of bad men with badges and secrets.
She’s sitting on the edge of the couch in our meeting room, knees bouncing like she’s trying to physically outrun her own anxiety. Her hands are clasped together so tight her knuckles are pale, but she’s still holding her chin up like she refuses to be intimidated by anything—including the fact that she’s surrounded by a group of ex-military men who look like the before shots in a “don’t mess with me” PSA.
And the worst part?
I can’t stop looking at her. I keep telling myself it’s surveillance. Assessment. Threat evaluation. That’s what I do. Recon. Read people. Identify weaknesses—mine included. But when her mouth quirks and she mutters something under her breath about “testosterone volcanoes” while Gavin’s giving orders, I feel something in my chest shift like a lock clicking open.
And I don’t like it.
Because I don’t do locks.
I do doors. Breaches. Exits.
I do leaving.
Gavin’s voice cuts through the room—calm, controlled, commander energy that makes even the air straighten up. “Okay. We’ve got nothing solid on Mark Renshaw’s current location. That’s the reality. But we do have a potential connection chain through Hanover Falls PD and some off-book calls tied to a burner pattern.”
Wyatt taps his keyboard and throws up a map on the screen. Dots. Routes. A big red circle over the county line like a target.
Rafe is leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He looks relaxed, but I know better. Rafe’s relaxed is still lethal. It’s just quieter now that he’s not wearing the commander mantle. Harper did that—pulled him back toward living.
Gavin’s gaze flicks to me, then back to the room. “Silas has put feelers out with his contacts. FBI isn’t officially involved, but we’ve got a local field office agent who owes us a favor.”
Silas nods once from the corner. Sheriff hat tossed on the table, jaw tight. “Doesn’t mean they’ll move fast. Renshaw’s a cop. Paperwork has to be airtight.”
Chase makes a face like the wordpaperworkis a personal insult. “Monsters always hide behind paperwork.”
Boyd, sitting with his big frame folded into a chair like it’s too small for him, rumbles, “They hide behind anything.”
Eli—medic, calm, annoyingly sane—glances at Emma. “How are you doing?”
Emma’s eyes dart to him, then to me, then to Gavin. “I’m… great,” she says with the kind of fake brightness that fools exactly no one. “I love being the center of a very hot, very scary meeting.”
Thorne snorts from the back of the room—tall, quiet, the kind of guy who doesn’t waste words and doesn’t miss much. “She’s got jokes.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s what worries me.”
Emma’s gaze snaps to mine. “Excuse me?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is: the jokes aren’t the problem.
The problem is the way her voice cuts through the tension like sunlight through trees. The way she won’t fold, even when fear is crawling up her spine. The way she looks at this room full of dangerous men and still somehow decides she’s allowed to talk back.
That kind of courage gets you killed.
It also gets you under my skin.
Gavin turns the conversation back to operational. “Emma, you’re staying on property. Non-negotiable. Until we find your sister or we confirm she’s not in immediate danger.”
Emma flinches at the last part. Immediate danger. Like she’s trying not to imagine what “not immediate” might mean.
She swallows. “And if sheisin danger?”
Gavin’s jaw tightens. “Then we bring her home.”
Something softens in Emma’s expression—hope fighting through fear. It makes my chest do that stupid thing again.