Chapter Four
The warmth of the main house hit Azrael and Real as soon as they stepped back inside, boots knocking snow from the porch.
The scent of cocoa and cinnamon lingered in the air, an odd but pleasant counterpoint to the faint tang of gun oil that never seemed to leave the walls.
Rebel was curled up on the couch, dark curls falling across his forehead, his slender frame tucked into a blanket that looked two sizes too big. He glanced up, his dark brown eyes catching the light like polished glass, and grinned.
“Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d frozen out there.”
“Not all of us hide under blankets to survive winter,” Azrael said evenly, though his lips twitched toward a smile.
From the same couch, Crow snorted, a sound more growl than laugh, blond hair mussed, steel-blue eyes sharp, his tattoos peeked from the edge of his shirt as he sprawled back like he owned the place. His voice, gravel-deep, rumbled across the room.
“He’s not hiding. He’s hoarding. If that blanket had any more layers, it’d qualify as armor.”
Rebel didn’t even glance at him, just reached for his cocoa mug on the table. “Says the man who won’t take off his boots indoors. Very civilized of you, Crow.”
Real barked a laugh, setting his mug down. “He’s got you there.”
Crow narrowed his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. “Boots are practical. Blankets are excuses.”
Rebel tilted his head, curls bouncing, and smirked. “Funny. You didn’t think they were an excuse last night when you stole half of mine.”
Azrael arched a brow at that, while Real chuckled and shook his head. “I’m not touching that one.”
Crow’s ears flushed red, though his glare promised retaliation. “You say one word—just one—and you’ll be running laps in the snow.”
“Mm-hm.” Rebel sipped his cocoa delicately, as if he hadn’t just publicly skewered his husband. “Threats of cardio. Terrifying.”
Azrael finally let a quiet laugh escape, rare but genuine. “You two are impossible.”
Rebel beamed, tugging the blanket higher around himself. “Impossible? No. Entertaining? Absolutely.”
Real leaned against the doorway, watching the back-and-forth with open amusement. “Honestly, the ranch would be too quiet without them. Crow scowling, Rebel poking at him until he breaks.”
Crow grumbled something under his breath but reached out anyway to squeeze Rebel’s shoulder. For all his bluster, his touch lingered, protective.
Azrael caught Real’s eye over their mugs, both men smiling into the steam. For a moment, the house felt less like a place of killers and more like a home.
Before the moment could settle too deeply, the front door opened again, a draft of cold air slipping inside along with two men before Stone shouldered it shut.
Big, storm-eyed, and built like a wall of muscle, dark hair threaded with gray and movements all predator grace, Stone moved into the room with a presence that made space bend around him.
Dave stepped in beside him, composed as ever. Steel-gray eyes, sharp but warm, hair touched with silver, posture immaculate even after the trek through snow.
Where Stone carried brute force and dangerous stillness, Dave radiated calm authority—the kind that came from years of command, eased only slightly by the first days of retirement, but never diminished.
Stone’s hand automatically hovered at Dave’s back, protective without thought, as if shielding something priceless.
Dave’s voice, when he spoke, was smooth, deliberate. “Seems we walked into the middle of something.”
“More like the middle of Crow losing an argument,” Rebel supplied helpfully, smirk tugging at his lips.
“Not losing,” Crow growled.
Stone’s gravel-deep laugh rolled out as he hung his jacket. “Man, you sound like me when Dave’s right and I don’t want to admit it.”
Dave glanced at him sidelong, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Which, if we’re being honest, is most of the time.”
“Don’t start, darlin’,” Stone rumbled, lowering onto the arm of Dave’s chair the second he sat down, his massive frame a solid shield. “You know I let you win on purpose.”
Dave’s lips curved in that quiet, knowing smile that always undid Stone. “Of course you do.”
Azrael and Real exchanged a glance, the edges of their mouths twitching.
Rebel clapped his hands together, delighted. “Finally. Another couple to watch Crow squirm when the love gets too thick in here.”
Crow groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “God help us. One couple was bad enough.”
“Two,” Rebel corrected sweetly, leaning into his blanket fortress. “Two couples now. Admit it—you love the domestic life.”
Stone leaned down, brushing a kiss against Dave’s temple like he didn’t care who was watching. “Nothing wrong with domestic life. As long as no one touches mine.”
Dave rested a hand on Stone’s forearm, calm and grounding, voice low and smooth. “No one’s about to, my love.”
Rebel raised his cocoa mug in a toast. “See? Thick with love. Told you.”
Crow muttered something about needing earplugs, but the way his arm wrapped tighter around Rebel’s shoulders gave him away.
The room, warm and crowded with killers-turned-family, felt steadier for it.
Outside, snow fell.
Inside, for one rare night, there was laughter, teasing, and the kind of quiet love that made even men carved for war soften around the edges.