Chapter Seventeen
~ Burke ~
I jerked awake at the sound of Sterling’s voice crackling through my earpiece. The whispered “Contact, northeast perimeter” cut through the darkness of our bedroom like a knife.
My body was moving before my mind fully registered what was happening, military training kicking in with the precision of muscle memory. Outside, the world was still draped in the deep blue of pre-dawn, but someone was out there. Someone was threatening what was mine.
“Multiple hostiles. Armed. Moving toward the house.”
Sterling’s voice was calm, measured, the same tone he’d use to order coffee or discuss the weather, but I knew my brother. The slight edge beneath the words told me everything I needed to know.
This wasn’t a drill.
I reached for the nightstand, fingers closing around the cool metal of my Glock. The weight of it was familiar, grounding. Three seconds—that’s all it took to check the magazine, chamber a round, flick off the safety. Like riding a bike, if that bike was designed to end lives when necessary.
“Confirmed visual on Jenkins. Repeat, primary target is on site.”
My blood turned to ice, then immediately boiled over. Dennis. The restraining order, the ankle monitor, the sheriff’s warnings—none of it had been enough to keep that bastard away. He’d come for Danny, just like he’d promised.
Over my dead fucking body.
I glanced down at Danny’s sleeping form beside me, his face peaceful in a way it rarely was when awake.
Even in sleep, one hand curled protectively over the gentle swell of his stomach, our child growing safe beneath his palm.
Twelve weeks now. Still early, still precious, still vulnerable in ways that made my chest ache.
The rage that coiled in my gut was something primal, something that predated civilization and laws and restraint. It was the rage of an alpha whose family was threatened, whose mate and child faced danger. I understood, in that moment, how men could kill without hesitation or remorse.
For them, I would burn the world down without blinking.
I leaned over, brushing my lips against Danny’s forehead in a feather-light kiss. He didn’t stir, exhausted from the pregnancy and the emotional toll of the sonogram appointment. Good. Let him sleep through this. Let him never know how close the danger had come.
“I’ll keep you safe,” I whispered against his skin, a promise I intended to fulfill by any means necessary. “Both of you.”
I slipped from the bed silently, years of SEAL training making my movements fluid and soundless despite my size. The jeans I pulled on were yesterday’s, still draped over the chair where I’d left them. I didn’t bother with a shirt—no time, and the temperature wasn’t my concern right now.
“Positions?” I murmured into my earpiece, voice barely audible as I moved through the darkened house.
“Northwest corner. They’re coming through the tree line now.”
I stepped onto the porch, the pre-dawn air biting at my bare skin. The world held its breath in that strange stillness that comes before sunrise, everything washed in shades of navy and gray. The perfect light for hunting. Or being hunted.
I moved across the yard with calculated steps, positioning myself between the approaching threat and the house where Danny slept. My Glock stayed low at my side, ready, but not threatening. Not yet.
Sterling materialized beside me like a ghost, his presence announced only by the faintest shift in the air. In the dim light, we could have been the same person—same height, same build, same face. But while I stood openly, Sterling remained half-hidden in shadow, the darker version of myself.
“Northeast quadrant,” he murmured, nodding toward the tree line. “Four of them. Primary target is intoxicated, belligerent. Secondary targets armed with blunt instruments.”
We’d always been like this, even as kids. Sterling would provide the intel, I’d make the plan. Minimal words, maximum efficiency. The twin connection that had served us so well in the field now deployed in defense of my home.
I nodded once, scanning the area he’d indicated. “Sheriff?”
“Notified. ETA eight minutes.”
Eight minutes. A lifetime in combat terms. I could do a lot of damage in eight minutes if necessary.
Movement at the edge of the property caught my attention—shadowy figures emerging from the tree line, silhouettes against the lightening sky. Dennis was in front, his walk uneven, sloppy.
Even from this distance, I could smell the stink of alcohol and hatred rolling off him in waves. The three men flanking him moved with more caution, carrying what looked like crowbars and baseball bats.
Amateur hour. If this wasn’t so deadly serious, I might have laughed.
Dennis spotted us and stumbled to a stop, swaying slightly on his feet. His face twisted in the half-light, hatred distorting features that might once have been handsome before alcohol and rage had carved their permanent marks.
“You ready to die today, Callahan?” he called, voice slurred but carrying clearly in the still morning air. He took an unsteady step forward, pointing an accusatory finger. “Shoulda minded your own business.”
I remained silent, calculating distances and angles, assessing threats.
Dennis was drunk enough to be unpredictable, but not so drunk he couldn’t do damage.
His friends were sober enough to be genuinely dangerous.
Sterling had already melted back into the shadows, positioning himself to flank them if necessary.
Smart. He’d take the ones with weapons. I’d deal with Dennis.
“Nothing to say?” Dennis taunted, stepping closer. The reek of whiskey grew stronger. “Big man when you’re fucking my brother, but not so tough now, huh?”
My fingers tightened around the Glock, but I kept it at my side. Not yet. Wait for them to make the first move. Let them cross the line so what comes next is clearly self-defense.
“That omega whore belongs to me,” Dennis snarled, gesturing wildly toward the house where Danny slept. “My family. My property. You think you can just take what’s mine?”
The words hit me like a physical blow, igniting something dark and dangerous in the pit of my stomach. My vision narrowed, focusing solely on Dennis’s sneering face. The Glock felt heavier in my hand, my finger hovering near the trigger.
But I wouldn’t shoot. Not unless he forced my hand. Because Danny deserved better than a mate who solved problems with bullets when words would do.
So I waited, silent and watchful as the eastern sky began to lighten, as Dennis and his cronies drew closer to the invisible line I’d drawn in my mind.
Come just a little closer, I thought, every muscle in my body coiled and ready. Just a little closer, and I’ll show you exactly who Danny belongs to.
Something had snapped inside me at Dennis’s words. Not visibly—I’d been trained too well for that—but deep in my core, where the darkest parts of me lived. The cold calculation I’d been maintaining evaporated like morning dew under a blowtorch.
I took one deliberate step forward, letting my voice drop to that deadly register I’d perfected in combat situations where I needed someone to understand they were one wrong move from meeting their maker.
“He was never yours,” I growled, each word precise as a knife thrust. “And now he’s carrying my child.”
Dennis’s face contorted, alcohol and rage distorting his features into something barely human.
The words hit him like a physical blow—the confirmation that Danny was pregnant, that I had claimed him in the most primal way possible.
His eyes bulged, veins standing out on his forehead as spittle flew from his lips.
“You fucking liar!” he screamed, charging forward with all the finesse of a wounded bull.
I sidestepped his rush with practiced ease, years of combat training making his movements seem almost comically slow. His momentum carried him past me, and I pivoted, catching his outstretched arm as he stumbled.
The move was textbook—twist, leverage, redirect. I used Dennis’s own weight and forward motion against him, driving him down to his knees in the dirt with a satisfying thud.
He howled in pain and outrage as I maintained pressure on his wrist, keeping him immobilized with minimal effort. The years of abuse he’d inflicted on Danny, the fear he’d sown, the bruises he’d left—all of it distilled into this pathetic display of drunken rage.
Movement flickered in my peripheral vision—one of Dennis’s friends rushing toward me, crowbar raised above his head. I tensed, calculating whether I could maintain my hold on Dennis while defending against the new threat.
I needn’t have worried.
Sterling emerged from the shadows like a vengeful ghost, intercepting the attacker with terrifying efficiency. There was no wasted motion, no dramatic flourish—just the cold, precise application of force.
One moment the man was charging, crowbar raised; the next he was face-down in the dirt, arm twisted at an angle nature never intended, weapon forgotten beside him.
Sterling didn’t even look winded. He stepped back, eyes already tracking the remaining two threats.
They’d seen enough. Self-preservation kicked in where courage failed, and they backed away, then turned and fled toward the tree line. In the distance, sheriff’s sirens wailed, growing louder with each passing second.
I returned my attention to Dennis, who was still struggling beneath my grip. I drove my knee into his back, pinning him more firmly to the ground. His face pressed into the dirt, spitting curses and threats that grew increasingly desperate as the pressure increased.
“Listen carefully, you piece of shit,” I hissed, bending close to his ear. The rage that had been simmering all night condensed into something cold and deadly. “If you ever come near my mate or my child again, I will end you. There won’t be enough left of you to identify.”