Chapter Three
The Barn…
The barn glowed with Christmas lights and chaos.
Wreaths leaned against wood support beams, half-strung garland draped over railings, and the faint scent of pine and cocoa drifted through the warm air.
It was high-tech where it needed to be—security panels humming along the walls, generators on standby—but the real warmth came from the man cave’s brick fireplace, the heat lamps, and the sound of laughter bouncing off the rafters.
Boston stood in the center of it all, watching his team try to turn the place into a Christmas wonderland. Sure, they worked as assassins under YA and Genesis, but they were still friends—something close to family. A few were new, but they’d been vetted and already fit like they’d always been here.
He adjusted a crooked strand of lights over the door leading to the hallway and flicked a glance at Sage. The techie sat across the table, blond hair falling into focused green eyes, attention locked on a laptop—as always. If it wasn’t that, it was a phone.
“You think the neighbors are still pissed we bought this place?” Boston asked.
Sage glanced up, green eyes thoughtful. “Bought isn’t the word they use.”
Boston grinned. “Yeah? What do they call it?”
“Took.” Sage’s gaze dropped back to the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Old ranchers don’t like outsiders with fences higher than theirs and security cameras pointed at the tree line.”
Boston gave a short laugh. “Can’t blame ’em. We turned their backyard into Fort Knox.”
Sage looked up again, forest-green eyes sharp under the glow of the lights. “They should be grateful. No one’s stolen a cow since we moved in.”
Boston chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got a real gift for public relations, you know that?”
Sage’s mouth curved—just barely. “I’m not on the PR team.”
“Do we even have a PR team?” Beck asked, dropping onto the bench beside Boston.
With brown eyes and dark, curly hair, Beck could’ve passed for Boston’s brother. About nineteen, slender but already muscled from training—steady, dependable. Boston still wasn’t sure what Beck was short for, but he figured if the kid wanted him to know, he’d say so.
“Nope.” Boston smirked, then hesitated. “At least, I don’t think we do.”
Sage’s grin widened. “If we do, it’s called Viper. You’ve got a problem, take it to him—he’ll make it disappear. Poof.” He pressed his fingers together, then flicked them open.
Beck laughed. “Funny. Don’t let Viper hear you say that.”
Sage looked around quickly, making Boston laugh.
“Viper isn’t that bad.”
Beck gave an exaggerated shudder. “He’s scary as hell.”
“Who?” Freedom asked, making his way over.
“V–V–Viper,” Beck stuttered with a laugh.
Someone cranked up the music, and Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer started blasting overhead.
Boston turned with the others, gaze sweeping the barn. The space glowed warm under the Christmas lights, colors reflecting off polished rafters and rough-cut beams.
Laughter rose from Micah and Ocean as they danced around the crooked pine tree they’d all dragged in earlier.
At twenty-eight, Syx was the oldest of YA and had strung garland through the branches, making it shine under the lights. Aspen—same age as Sage, twenty-five—leaned against a post, quiet as usual, sipping from his mug of coffee, watching more than joining in.
Micah and Ocean started tossing sugar cookies back and forth, daring each other to catch them in their mouths.
It was all noise, sugar, and a thin layer of peace they rarely saw.
Boston glanced sideways at Sage, who rolled his eyes.
Freedom pushed up from the bench and headed over to join Micah and Ocean.
Boston turned, leaning back on his elbows against the picnic-style table, watching the group of assassins.
At sixteen and restless, Freedom still carried sparks of innocence no past could burn out. Small but quick, blond curls bounced across his brow as he started to dance.
Micah—mid-twenties and Freedom’s opposite—grinned, straight ink-black hair swinging past his shoulders. Graceful where Freedom buzzed, he moved with a willowy ease that drew eyes.
Freedom had come to Genesis with Fierce, who was still MIA, and stayed on with YA. Micah had come in with Black—or rather, after Black joined Genesis, Micah followed YA soon after.
Ocean had turned up on one of the Erebus jobs and was brought in by Wrath and his husband, Rogue.
Syx was a whole different animal.
Nobody knew his story.
All Boston knew was that the Secretary of Defense, William Caldwell, had dropped Syx off at Shadowfell Ranch and stalked away muttering something about needing a drink.
Boston figured that said everything he needed to know.
The music thumped, lights flashing off the crooked pine and half-strung garland.
Freedom twirled between Micah and Ocean, laughter bouncing off the rafters, while Sage muttered about short-circuiting the whole grid, and Aspen just smirked into his coffee.
Boston leaned against the table, watching them—killers, all of them, and yet somehow this felt like peace.
A cold gust slipped under the barn doors, stirring the scent of pine and cocoa.
Beck glanced over, grinning, waggling a cookie. “You good?” he asked.
Boston caught the cookie Beck tossed his way and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly as the music swelled. “For now.”
Outside, the night was quiet.
Inside, the laughter kept going.