Chapter One
Six months later…
The surf was barely audible through the thick windows of the Santa Barbara estate, but Dave always felt it like a pulse beneath the walls. He had chosen this house because the ocean never truly slept—and neither did he.
The study smelled of old paper, mahogany shelves, and bitter, steam curling coffee.
The pot on the bar had already been brewed thanks to the staff, and he poured slowly, relishing the routine—the scrape of porcelain, the quiet trickle as the dark liquid filled his cup, swirling heavy cream.
Settling into one of the two wide, wingback leather chairs that faced his lush gardens beyond the picture window, he noticed the sky was gray this morning.
Autumn was moving on, and winter was slowly rolling in. Here, so close to the ocean, the early November mornings carried a cool hush beneath the gray marine layer.
For a few seconds, the morning was his. All he needed was a few minutes to himself, a quiet space to recharge.
Then came the knock on the door.
Dave ignored it twice before setting his coffee aside. The first tasks of the day always found him before breakfast—as if the world knew exactly when to knock.
Or, in this case, his advisor and operations coordinator, Clinton.
The solitude and quiet in the study had been too good to be true. Normally, he found Boston—and lately Freedom—tucked amongst the shelves, enjoying the library area, arguing over some historical volume they’d unearthed from his collection.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the rows of leather-bound books he never quite had the time to read.
“Come in,” Dave called.
“Sir,” Clinton’s voice was crisp but urgent as he opened the door. “Commander Savage is on the Erebus line.”
Clinton handed him one of his many work phones. Dave had several, each number assigned to a specific team.
“Savage,” Dave murmured into the phone. “What can I do for you?”
“Hey, Dave. I’ve got new recruits I need vetted. You said you wanted to go over each one. I’ll send the files, but wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Thank you,” Dave replied, speaking for another minute before ending the call.
Dave pinched the bridge of his nose. Retirement had been the plan. But these teams weren’t like anything else. And they sure the hell weren’t built for red tape—and neither was he.
He lifted the laptop from the table between the two chairs, flipping it open. Sipping his coffee, he pulled up the first applicant’s file.
“Sir, these documents need your signature.” Clinton returned minutes later with a stack of folders. His expression stayed carefully neutral. “Also, I sent a message to Stone earlier,” he said, swiping through his notes. “No response. Maybe he didn’t see it.”
Dave frowned at that.
Stone didn’t ignore calls. Not from him.
“I’ll flag it again.” Clinton gave a small shrug, like it was nothing at all, and placed the folders on the desk.
Dave rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck to work out some of the tension before he scrolled through Erebus applications and background checks, signing papers in between.
Erebus was one of his most unique teams, assassins who had either come from the streets or had been rescued from a diabolical madman. Solomon—Dave’s biggest mistake.
He shook the thought away and bent back to the papers.
“Sir.” Clinton reappeared, phone in hand. “The Secretary of Defense is on the line.”
Calls kept stacking like a card tower, always on the edge of toppling.
Dave spoke with William Caldwell for several minutes about one of their other specialty teams—Genesis.
By the time the call ended, he had approved one application and denied four, sending them back to Savage. He signed the last document from Clinton’s stack.
Coffee cooling, Dave stood and crossed to the bar. Santa Barbara might be his refuge, but the world always found its way in. And beneath the noise of duty was a quieter truth: the cost of his work wasn’t measured in missions. It was measured in the people he never let get close.
He reached for the coffee pot.
“Sir?” Clinton rapped on the partially open door again. “Your nine o’clock meeting starts in five minutes.”
Dave released the pot before he could even refill his cup and followed Clinton out of the study.
As they walked, Clinton’s assistant, Taylor, updated him on the upcoming trip to Washington. Taylor handed over a thick file just as he opened the meeting room door.
Inside, several members of Aries, another of his specialty teams, stood as he entered. Dave moved to the head of the table.
“Please, sit,” he said, settling into his chair.
Two hours later, the meeting adjourned. Dave left with King and Nash at his side.
“I’ll keep you informed about the Charleston issue,” King said.
“Here are those orders you wanted,” Nash added, handing him a yellow file.
“Thank you.”
They parted at the front doors. Dave returned down the hall alone, back toward his study.
He opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it harder than intended. The muffled echo rolled through the room. He tugged at his tie, the silk suddenly too tight, and crossed the space with heavy steps.
A faint coolness lingered at the windows, held back by the low crackle of the fire the staff had lit earlier. It wasn’t cold enough to need one, but he liked the ritual and had them lit as early as October.
“Boston? Freedom?” Dave called.
Silence greeted him. Normally, he’d find the teenagers curled up between the shelves with a book.
He moved toward his chair but stopped, gazing out at the tranquil garden beyond the window.
Then the world tilted.
He stumbled, bracing himself against the wingback.
A sharp pain stabbed beneath his sternum. His knee struck the side table, knocking coasters to the floor. His breath hitched—too shallow, too fast.
The room spun. Shelves blurred, photographs bent out of shape.
“What the hell,” he muttered, jaw clenched.
The pain deepened, knees buckling. He collapsed into the chair, dragging in air until, at last, the sharp edge dulled, retreating to a heavy throb.
He sat for several minutes, breathing deeply, calming down.
That was when the knock sounded—sharp and efficient—on the hidden passage door.
Dave smoothed his tie and forced his face into the mask everyone expected.
The door creaked open.
“Still hiding in here?” Stone’s voice was rough, steady, impossible to ignore.
Dave looked up. He didn’t need to look twice to know the room had shifted.
Stone filled the doorway like a shadow come alive—six and a half feet of coiled muscle and quiet threat, dark hair swept back from a wide forehead, storm-colored eyes cutting through the room as if nothing could hide.
Gray threaded his black hair and crow’s-feet etched around his eyes from a lifetime of watching for the kill.
He moved with the slow, certain stride of a jungle cat, unshaven jaw tight, every inch the predator.
Once Erebus’s most dangerous assassin, now his right hand, Stone carried himself with a sex appeal that wasn’t polished but carved—raw, inevitable, impossible to ignore.
Tattoos crawled up his forearms like battle scars written in ink.
And as always, when those storm-colored eyes locked on him, Dave felt something tighten low in his chest, a restless churn that stole his breath for half a second before he forced it down.
Stone held two mugs in his hands and crossed the room, setting one cup on the table between the chairs.
“You came bearing tribute. I suppose I should be grateful,” Dave said.
“It’s decaf.”
Dave’s smile faltered. “I hate decaf.”
“That’s why I brought it.”
Stone sank into the opposite chair, his gaze cutting sharp through the polished wood and pretense. “You’ve been drowning in caffeine since sunrise. Your heart’s not bulletproof.”
Dave’s brow lifted, but his gaze dropped to Stone’s left shoulder. “How’s it holding up?”
Stone smirked, wry and sharp. “Six months, Dave. I’m fine.”
Dave’s jaw tightened. Stone getting shot had carved years into him.
“It’s November. Cold’s not doing you any favors.” His voice came out clipped, colder than he intended.
“Cold never did. But I’m still here.” Stone shrugged, rolling his shoulder as if to prove it.
“Don’t push it.” Dave’s reply stayed sharp, distancing.
Stone’s smirk edged sharper. “What? You want to kiss a boo-boo?”
Dave’s pupils blew wide with shock before his scowl snapped back into place.
“Ass,” he muttered.
Stone only chuckled, low and satisfied, leaning back like he’d won something.
Dave’s jaw flexed, the echo of that hospital call still etched in his bones—hours waiting, years carved off his life. He couldn’t imagine Stone not being here. And yet, in the moment, he did what he always did—shoved it down, masked it with distance.
“What do you need, Stone?” His voice was clipped, more abrupt than he meant, but safer than the truth.
Stone leaned back, stretching out like he owned the room.
“Not everything is about missions and orders. Sometimes it’s just about showing up. About being here. With you.”
For once, Dave had no immediate answer. His chest tightened—not with pain this time, but something he couldn’t dismiss as easily.
“You okay?” Stone frowned.
Dave forced a nod. “Fine.”
“You look pale.”
“It’s nothing. I just haven’t had much sun lately.”
Stone wasn’t convinced, but thankfully didn’t pry.
“Then let’s take a walk down by the water. Just us. Salt air. Sunlight. Do you remember what those feel like?”
“Later, maybe.”
“Later,” Stone repeated. The word carried weight. Disappointment.
They sat in silence. The crackle of fire. The distant hum of the Pacific. Steam rising from cooling mugs.
Dave let his eyes drift to the book Stone had picked up. The man wasn’t reading; his thumb traced the same page, back and forth, lost in thought.
It should’ve broken the quiet. Somehow, it deepened it.
Dave realized—grudging, undeniable—that Stone’s presence didn’t intrude. It settled. Like silence was something they shared, not escaped.
He forced his gaze back to his own book, though he hadn’t read a word.
Then came another knock—Clinton’s rhythm, sharp and sure.
Dave exhaled, already standing. “And there it is.”
Stone stayed seated, gaze steady, book resting on his lap.
As Dave reached the door, he allowed himself one fleeting thought—the beach, Stone beside him, sunlight instead of crisis.
The two of them.
Just us, the words hung in the air, an unspoken question in Stone’s eyes.
A nice thought. But in his world, nice thoughts never survived long past the threshold.
Clinton waited in the hallway, glass of water ready. Dave accepted it in silence. Six months under him, and the kid already knew his habits—that quiet anticipation that marked a good advisor. Precise. Efficient. It helped that he’d spent two years shadowing Dave’s last man before retirement.
Efficient. Reliable. Exactly what Dave required in his orbit.