Chapter Two
Snow fell thick and steady against the barn roof, the sound muffled beneath the laughter.
Inside the barn, Azrael stood near the wall—a shadow amid the glow of mismatched Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the rafters.
The younger assassins had spent days trying to make the place festive: paper stars cut by hand, garland draped along the railing and over the backs of worn leather chairs, mugs of steaming chocolate lined up on the table beneath the glow of string lights.
Even the pot of coffee and jug of creamer, a gift from Cookie in the main house, felt like part of it somehow.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs—and looking at it, Azrael felt a quiet warmth settle in his chest.
His gaze drifted over the group.
They looked happy. Almost normal.
He didn’t trust it.
The young adults were laughing too loudly, shoulders loose, eyes bright—their guard down in a way that stirred both pride and unease. He wanted them to have this, but a part of him stayed sharp, waiting for the world to remind them of what they were.
Azrael’s gaze swept the room the way it always did—measuring exits, angles, weaknesses. He wanted to believe this place was safe, that Shadowfell Ranch was far enough from the world’s ugliness to keep it from bleeding in. But old instincts never really faded.
A familiar warmth brushed against him before he saw it.
Real, weaving through the crowd with two mugs in hand, grin as effortless and sexy as ever.
He passed one over, fingers grazing Azrael’s in that way he always did—small, grounding touches, enough to remind Azrael that he wasn’t alone in his vigilance.
“You look suspicious,” Real teased, voice low, threaded with affection.
Azrael took the mug, steam curling between them.
“Not suspicious—just watching. They’ve let their guard down.” He took a slow drink, a few mini marshmallows brushing his lips, his eyes never leaving the young assassins.
Real leaned in close enough for their shoulders to brush. “That’s the point. Even assassins need a holiday.”
A pause—then softer. “Besides, you’ve got me watching your back.”
Azrael turned, just slightly, to meet his husband’s eyes. He didn’t doubt it for a second. Real always had his back.
Azrael’s gaze lingered on the young assassins a moment longer, unease tugging at him even as Real pressed closer, his presence grounding. Azrael took another sip of his cocoa and finally turned toward the barn doors.
They stepped outside together. The wind had picked up, cutting cold against his face and slipping down the collar of his heavy coat.
“Let’s get out of the cold,” Real murmured, tugging gently at his arm. “They’ll be fine. Let’s head back to the main house.”
Azrael sighed, and when Real’s hand—warm and steady—closed around his, he picked up the pace.
They slipped through the night together, boots crunching over the snow as the barn doors swung shut behind them.
The glow of the lights faded with distance, giving way to the dark silhouette of the main house ahead.
The barn was full of older YA assassins who could handle themselves if trouble came—and keep the younger ones in line. Boston, Beck, and Freedom—who’d been with them for a while now—were all there.
It was the newest recruits that worried Azrael most—five fresh faces added to the original five—but for now, laughter carried through the cold.
And for tonight, that was enough.