Chapter Five #2
“I’m saying the poster knew the system, but not like a pro.” Shade sipped his coffee, his eyes narrowing. “This was someone reckless. Someone arrogant. Someone who wanted things to hurt. And someone who thought they were smarter than they are. That’s Corbin all over.”
Deacon sat back, the pieces shifting in his head. The ambush. There could have indeed been two of them.
“So you think Corbin is hiring out attacks now?” Deacon asked Shade. “Why? What’s the play?”
The man shrugged. “Ask him. I’m just telling you what I think could be true.”
“And what aren’t you telling us?” Deacon pushed.
Shade stiffened. Just slightly, but enough.
“Let’s cut through the crap,” Deacon growled. “Do you have any reason to set up Corbin or Wynn? Any reason to drag Jessa into this? Or attack me?”
Jessa shot him a warning look, but he didn’t back off.
Shade’s eyes flashed, a hit of anger quick and hot. “You think I’d put a target on Jessa?” he growled. “You think I dragged my ass out here to play some game with your life?”
“You tell me,” Deacon shot back, unmoved.
For half a heartbeat, Shade looked ready to come across the table—big fists clenched, jaw set, face dark. Then he pushed to his feet.
“I’m done,” he said, his voice low and pissed. “I don’t need this bullshit.”
Deacon rose with him, stitches screaming, refusing to show a flicker of weakness. “Sit down. We’re not finished.”
Shade scoffed. “Yeah, we are.”
He stepped out of the booth. And froze.
Because the front door swung open, the bell chimed, and a tall, broad-shouldered man strode into Luna Mae’s as if he owned the oxygen in the room. And just like that, the real storm walked in.
Roman Creed.
Dark jacket. Hard eyes. Jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Murder simmering just beneath the surface.
All sharp lines and lethal presence, filling the doorway with a kind of silent violence that made conversation inside the diner die off mid-breath. Black hair, blue eyes—the kind that didn’t just look at you, but through you. No bouncer bulk, no wasted mass. Lean, precise muscle. Tailored danger.
A man who could kill quietly or loudly and wouldn’t lose sleep either way.
Roman’s gaze landed on Jessa, flicking over her, no doubt looking for injuries. Then on Deacon, measuring, assessing, tense. And finally on Shade.
“Shade,” Roman said, voice low and lethal.
It sure as hell wasn’t a friendly greeting.
Shade went stiff as steel when Roman stalked toward their booth, and that stiffness soon turned to outright nerves. The hacker actually looked smaller somehow, shoulders folding inward, eyes darting like he was calculating escape routes.
Roman didn’t give him the chance. He clamped a hand around Shade’s arm—just above the elbow, firm enough to bruise—and forced him back into the seat.
“Sit,” Roman said. One word, low and cold.
Shade obeyed. Fast.
Roman slid into the booth beside him, all contained fury and razor-edged control. He leaned back, but the tension in his frame didn’t ease. He was coiled, watchful. Ready.
Then he looked across the table at Jessa. “You all right?” Roman asked, voice low enough that only their group heard it.
Jessa nodded. “I’m fine. But Deacon was hurt.”
Roman’s eyes snapped to Deacon instantly, and the air thickened.
The two men locked gazes, and the diner felt colder for it.
There was a whole damn history between them, carved in distrust and disagreements and that one case a year ago that had blown everything to hell.
Deacon felt every ounce of that bad blood settle in his ribs, stirring his pulse.
But Roman didn’t linger on him long. His focus swung right back to Shade. And the look he gave the hacker…
Pure ice. Pure warning.
Deacon noticed it instantly—the same tightness in Roman’s jaw that Shade had mirrored, the same energy that rattled the space between them.
There was bad blood here too. Old. Ugly. Silent. And far from resolved.
Deacon leaned back just enough to give Roman space, not out of respect, but because the man radiated enough controlled violence to fill the whole damn booth.
“Shade was just explaining,” Deacon said evenly, “what motive he might have for orchestrating this shitshow.”
Shade’s head snapped toward him. “I told you I don’t have a motive.”
Roman gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You’ve got plenty.”
Shade stiffened, bristling, but Roman didn’t so much as blink. He kept his piercing stare locked on the hacker, voice calm in a way that made the hairs on Deacon’s neck stand up.
“Let’s cut the crap,” Roman said. “You’re in debt up to your eyeballs to the wrong people. The kind who collect with bullets, not invoices.”
Shade’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Roman countered. “And hackers in your position don’t go begging for loans. They sell something.” He tipped his chin toward Jessa. “Anything. Everything.”
Jessa stiffened beside Deacon, but Roman kept going, eyes narrowing.
“And you expect me to believe you’re suddenly doing charity work? That you warned Jessa out of the goodness of your heart?” Roman scoffed. “You took ten grand from her, payment for info to save Deacon’s life.”
Deacon’s pulse faltered. He turned his head sharply toward Jessa. “Ten thousand?”
She didn’t answer right away, not verbally. Her jaw tightened. Her gaze flicked to Shade, then to the table. Shoulders tense. Guilty. Defiant.
Silent confirmation.
Deacon swallowed the knot forming in his throat. Ten thousand dollars. To save him.
Jessa never hesitated to spend money on missions, on equipment, on her team, but on him? After everything between them?
Hell. He hadn’t expected that.
Shade dragged a hand down his face. “I gave her intel. Real intel. Worth that much.” Then he shot Roman a glare. “And it kept your sister and the sheriff from getting a bullet or two in their skulls.”
Roman leaned in, slow and deliberate, every movement a warning. “Or,” he said softly, “it put a target on her back.”
Shade opened his mouth. Closed it. No comeback. No denial.
Deacon watched the silent exchange, the weight of it, the threat in Roman’s posture, the fear Shade tried and failed to hide. Roman didn’t ease up. If anything, his voice got quieter. More dangerous.
“And while we’re discussing motives,” Roman said, eyes fixed on Shade, “let’s not forget my mother ruined you financially.”
Shade’s expression snapped as if Roman had hit him with a fist instead of a sentence. “That’s not—” Shade started, but Roman cut him off.
“She lent you money,” Roman said. “More than once. Covered debts you wouldn’t tell Jessa about. Trusted you. And you paid her back by gambling it away, owing more, then asking for more. When she cut you off, you hit bottom so hard you’re still crawling out.”
Shade flushed an angry red, fists clenching on the table. “Shut the hell up, Creed.”
Roman didn’t flinch. “That’s your motive. Not just money. Resentment. Shame. And you’d sell every secret you can scrape up if it gets you out from under whoever’s holding your leash.”
That did it.
Shade shoved to his feet so fast that every head in the diner jerked their way, forks pausing mid-air.
He glared straight at Deacon. “If you’re not arresting me, I’m leaving.”
Deacon didn’t rise. He didn’t even blink. He just looked up at the man towering over him and calmly weighed his options.