62
LUKE
Iwake slowly, awareness returning in pieces.
Harper's warmth against my chest. Her breathing, soft and even. The weight of her hand in mine.
Yesterday was hell. The snipers, yeah, but also the aftermath. I drew Harper a long bath and held her in the hot water while she processed it all: her father's five-year betrayal, the choice she'd made to leave law enforcement, the finality of committing to Blackthorn. She cried against my chest, and I just held her, my hand steady on her back, letting her know she wasn't alone in this. That I had her. That I'd always have her.
I hold her closer, inhaling her.
The room is still dark—predawn, maybe five or five thirty. I don't move, don't want to disturb her. She needs the rest after everything that happened yesterday.
I'm just starting to drift back under when a scream tears through the house—raw, visceral, and terrified.
Emma.
I'm out of bed before I'm fully conscious, grabbing my sidearm from the nightstand.
Harper jolts awake behind me, disoriented. "Luke?—"
"Stay here," I snap, already moving.
I hit the hallway at a dead run, weapon raised. Jake's ahead of me, shirtless, armed, his face a mask of lethal focus.
"Emma?" he barks.
"Kitchen," I say.
We move together, fast and silent. When we reach the kitchen doorway, I sweep in first, Jake right behind me, both of us with weapons raised and ready.
The kitchen lights are on.
Emma's standing near the counter, her hand pressed to her chest, her face white as a sheet. She's breathing hard, eyes wide with shock.
Sitting calmly at the kitchen table, like she's waiting to be served pie or something, is a woman I've never seen before.
She's maybe five foot six, lean and wiry, dressed in dark tactical pants and a fitted black jacket. Her hair is pulled back in a tight, dark braid, her face angular and sharp. She's not visibly armed, but everything about her posture screams operator.
Her hands are folded on the table in front of her, like she’s visibly proclaiming that she has no weapons. She doesn't move—she doesn't flinch at the sight of two armed men pointing weapons at her.
She watches us with hazel eyes that appear blank—calm and controlled.
"Don't move," Jake says, his voice low and dangerous.
The woman doesn't respond—doesn't even blink.
I move to the side, keeping my weapon trained on her, my finger on the trigger. "Who the hell are you?"
“Who are you?” she retorts, her gaze steady on Jake, as if she knows he’s the most dangerous one here.
I chuckle darkly. “Honey, I don’t think you’re in a position to ask the questions here.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” she says mildly.
Harper skids into the kitchen, one of my guns pointed down at her side. She takes in the whole situation and hurries to cover Emma. “Who’s she?”
“We don’t know,” I reply.