Chapter Five
The bunkhouse smelled like coffee, gun oil, and old wood smoke.
Central heat hummed through the vents, steady and efficient, but someone had still lit the fireplace—because warmth earned by flame always felt different. The glow caught on gunmetal and shadow, throwing long lines across the bunkhouse.
Rip, Winter, Law, and Black were there—four men cut from different wars. Rip was honed to steel, Winter a blade in the dark, Black was brute force given shape, and Law was the kind of man you never wanted on the other side of a locked door.
Four different kinds of killers. Same room. Same uneasy brotherhood.
Rip sat at the long table, boots propped on the rung of the chair opposite him, cleaning the grit from the slide of his weapon with the steady patience he’d carried from his time in the military.
Thirty-seven, carved from years in Army Special Forces grit, Rip looked every bit the soldier he used to be—only harder now. Blue eyes identical to his brother Wrath, but colder.
A fresh cut and dark stubble framed a jaw all hard lines and trouble—sexy as hell.
“Whatcha got there?” Winter gave Rip an up-nod.
“Yo momma,” Rip said, lifting the nine-millimeter—fully loaded, suppressor attached.
“That’s not my momma,” Winter shot back. “Mine still thinks ‘suppressor’ means earplugs.”
Laughter rippled through the bunkhouse. Black nearly choked on his coffee, and even Law cracked the faintest smirk from where he sat by the fire. Rip didn’t break stride—just slid the barrel home and racked the slide with a grin that said he’d expected nothing less.
Winter just grinned at him, pleased with himself.
Late thirties, moved like a shadow even sitting still.
Those icy blue eyes missed nothing. Former Navy SEAL, and it showed in the way he moved—a tracker, a ghost, quick and precise.
Yet there was a quiet humor in him—dry, cutting, the kind that hit before you realized he’d said it.
“Careful, Winter—Rip takes that momma talk seriously,” Black warned, with a slight grin.
Chase Black, though no one called him Chase just Black. Thirty-one, built like a damned wall, muscle and tattoos with flashing blue eyes that dared anyone to get in his way.
Rip eyed Black, smirk tugging. “She’s everyone’s momma when she’s loaded.”
Low chuckles rolled through the room before settling into a comfortable silence. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the quiet hum of the vents and the soft pop of the fire.
Then Black lifted his head.
“Smell that?” he said, glancing toward the door. “Burnt sugar. Means the kids are at it again.”
Rip didn’t look up from the rifle. “Barn’s their kingdom tonight. Let ’em have it.”
Winter gave a short laugh. “Christmas lights strung across half-rotted beams. They’ll burn the place down before midnight.”
“There are no rotted beams on this ranch,” Black pointed out.
“You know what I mean.” Winter waved a hand in dismissal.
“Better than another gunfight,” Rip said, snapping the slide back into place.
“Speak for yourself,” Law said, voice light from his seat by the fire. “At least gunfights end on schedule.”
Rip snorted and glanced up. Law’s whiskey-colored eyes caught the glow, sharp and steady. Tall, broad—the kind of man who looked like he could haul a truck out of a ditch with his bare hands—Law carried the kind of presence that made silence bend around him.
“Ocean’s the one you have to worry about,” Rip said. “He was the one hanging glass shards for garland. Until we put in an order for the real stuff.”
“Is garland real?” Winter teased, earning a smirk from Rip.
Black chimed in. “Ocean’s got guts. Pretty, too. Looks fragile, but he climbs rafters like a damn cat.”
“Yeah,” Winter said. “He’s never on the ground.”
“And the new one, Syx,” Winter said.
“Syx has only been here a few weeks,” Black pointed out.
“A few weeks is long enough to know he’s got baggage,” Winter came back.
“Everybody has some baggage.” Black sipped at his cup; the coffee had to be cold by now.
The conversation faded, the warmth settling into something quieter.
“What’s your take on Sage?” Law asked into the quiet, eyes fixed on the frosted window like he could see through it. “Kid watches everything. Doesn’t speak unless he has to, but has a smart mouth when he does. Always moves like he’s waiting for an ambush.”
“Sage is far from a kid. He’s twenty-five,” Rip said, sliding the pistol across the table before switching to his rifle.
“He’s a kid from where I’m sitting,” Law muttered.
Rip shrugged. Far be it from him to wade into Law’s feelings about age-gap romance. Apparently, twenty-five was too young for forty-eight. He wasn’t sure exactly how old Law was—and didn’t plan on asking.
“Well,” Rip said. “Sage, Aspen, Syx, and Ocean are new here, but they’ve got the same street smarts, same scars as the rest. Solomon had a hand in shaping some of them.”
No one said the name easily. It hung there, heavy in the air—like smoke you couldn’t clear.
Black broke it with a slow shake of his head. “Nobody’s sayin’. None will confirm it.”
“Would you?” Winter’s voice had gone hard, his eyes sharp.
“Thankfully, that sick fuck is dead,” Law said flatly.
“True that,” Winter agreed, reaching for his mug of apple cider. “The fucked up part is that there will always be another diabolical madman raising his ugly head.”
“And we’ll put that one down too,” Rip said as he nodded.
Silence stretched until Black huffed out a snort and tipped back in his chair. “Hell, if they want to drown the barn in sugar and bad carols, fine.”
Rip smirked, low and tired. “Long as no one sings. Last time Freedom tried ‘Jingle Bells,’ I considered shooting out the radio.”
Winter arched a brow. “Says the man who decorated his bunk with a pine branch.”
Rip didn’t flinch. “It smelled better than you.”
Black’s booming laugh rattled the window glass, rough and deep, and for a moment, the sharp edges of the room softened. Even Law’s hard mouth cracked a smile.
For a moment, none of them looked like they wanted to move the conversation forward.
Then Winter, as always, broke it with a smirk. “Hell of a group coming together for Christmas.”
The others smiled.
Four killers.
Half-mocking the holidays, half-protecting what little peace the teenagers and young adults in the barn managed to carve out.
An uneasy brotherhood.
Maybe even something like family.