Chapter Eleven
The following morning…
The basement training wing of the Santa Barbara estate hummed with restless energy. Concrete walls and steel beams pressed close, the air sharp with sweat and old chalk. Mats slapped underfoot, men circling, their cheers bouncing off the low ceiling and concrete walls.
Dave leaned in the doorway with a coffee, decaf, in hand, Stone beside him, both of them silent observers.
Boston squared off against Rip. The kid was wiry, quick, with a cocky grin plastered across his face. Rip looked amused, all bulk and solid power, like he’d already decided how this would end.
“Don’t blink, old man,” Boston shot at Rip and then tossed Dave a grin. “I’m about to humble your boy.”
Rip rolled his shoulders. “Kid, you barely hit my chin. Humble yourself before I fold you in half.”
Bets whispered around the ring. Someone laughed.
Boston darted first—sharp feint left, slip right, fist glancing Rip’s ribs. Rip didn’t budge. A heartbeat later, Boston was airborne, flipped over Rip’s hip, and slammed flat onto the mat.
The crowd roared. Boston groaned, then laughed from his back. “Okay—half humbled.”
Rip reached and hauled Boston to his feet just as Stone moved forward, peeling off his jacket.
“My turn.” Stone’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.
Dave wanted to grab a fistful of Stone’s shirt, but he stopped himself. Just barely.
Rip’s grin wavered, then came back. “Been waiting for this.”
They squared off. Bets went wild. The room was a wash of noise and then silence.
Rip lunged for Stone’s shoulder—Stone flowed aside, pivot sharp, sweeping Rip’s legs clean. The bigger man hit the mat before he registered the loss of balance.
For a stunned breath, the room froze—then erupted in cheers and laughter.
Stone smirked, offering a hand down. “Still hit like a mule. But you fall like one too.”
Rip grinned as Stone hauled him to his feet.
Dave’s chest eased. The clench when Stone moved fading—six months out from the shoulder wound, and every spar carried risk.
But watching Stone now, commanding the room without breaking a sweat, pride cut through the nerves.
Stone was still badass.
The noise slowly ebbed, men drifting back to corners, muttering about lost bets. The energy lingered, though, sharp enough to cut the stale weight of waiting.
Later that afternoon, Dave stood at the window, hands braced on the sill, eyes on the gardens.
The study had emptied hours ago, but the echo of voices clung to the air. Rip’s gravelly laugh, Winter’s barbed sarcasm, Law’s too-easy grin. Even Viper’s silence was a weight that hadn’t lifted.
Stone and the others had moved into the conference room down the hall, their voices a muffled noise.
Knowing that Stone was going through Sparrow’s papers with the men.
Stone. Steady and always knowing the right way to handle things should have anchored him.
Instead, it gnawed at him.
He didn’t want to be one of the things that Stone handled.
Law’s arrival had dug an old splinter loose. He’d seen the way Law’s eyes had lingered on Stone, easy familiarity worn like a second skin. Stone hadn’t given anything back, but it didn’t matter.
The memory of it was enough.
Command weighed heavier with every new piece on the board. Sparrow’s intel. Viper’s confession. The bunkers. Titus. Too many voices, too many egos, all under his roof, waiting for orders he didn’t yet have the intel to give.
He pushed away from the window. The air inside was thick, stale with coffee and sweat and the static hum of restless men down the hall. He needed space, needed the ocean.
A few moments later, his boots crunched the gravel down to the sand. The waves crashed in the distance. The Pacific stretched endless, the tide pushing high against the shore.
He walked with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, head down, eyes fixed on the horizon that never gave answers.
“Mr. Allen.”
The voice slid in as smooth as the tide.
Clinton. Of course.
Dave didn’t break stride. “Shouldn’t you be cataloging Sparrow’s manifests?”
“I’ve finished.” Clinton’s shoes barely whispered against the sand, his posture rigid even here. “I thought you might want company.”
“I didn’t.”
Still, Clinton stayed, matching his pace. Too smooth for a man in dress shoes on a sandy beach. His posture hadn’t shifted an inch—shoulders squared, spine straight, like he was on parade.
“You don’t trust Law,” Clinton said lightly, as if stating the weather. “You don’t have to say it. I know it.”
Dave’s jaw worked, but he didn’t answer.
“He complicates things,” Clinton went on. “Stone’s loyalty is…divided. History with Law. Familiarity. You saw it.” His tone tightened, just enough to slip under the skin. “That’s not what you need right now.”
Dave’s chest pulled tight, faint at first. He exhaled through his nose, lengthening his stride.
Clinton slid in closer. “You need consistency. Someone who doesn’t bleed for you only when it suits him. Someone who doesn’t have ghosts in every corner of the room.”
The ache crawled deeper under Dave’s sternum. He shifted a hand into his pocket, pressing fingers against the spot.
The afternoon sun shimmered on the water.
Dave’s shoulders were tense, his pace deliberate, but Clinton saw the cracks.
He always saw them.
Stone didn’t. Stone never noticed the strain, the way Dave carried too much in silence. Law wouldn’t either—he was all attitude and history.
But Clinton noticed. He always noticed.
The pressure surged sharply. Dave slowed, breath shortening, the surf roaring louder in his ears.
“I handled Sparrow’s drop for you,” Clinton pressed. “Catalogued every manifest before anyone else. I kept you on track when the others argued. I’ve been at your side through all of it.” His voice softened, almost intimate. “I see you…Dave. They don’t.”
“Clinton—” His voice cracked low.
When the hell had Clinton’s care turned into an obsession?
And how the fuck had he missed it?
To be fair, he’d noticed pieces over the last several months. Shoved them off because one—he would never feel the same way. And two—Stone.
He loved Stone.
Shit.
He loved Stone.
The house was never quiet, but this silence felt wrong.
Stone checked the study again—empty. The desk was bare of coffee, a folder left open. Dave’s jacket missing. Clinton’s tablet gone.
Rip looked up from the kitchen when he entered, chewing on a chunk of bread. “You seen him?”
Stone shook his head once.
Winter frowned, tossing down a slice of cheese. “Clinton’s not around either.”
Something cold slotted into Stone’s chest. He didn’t need more than that.
“Rip, Winter—you’re with me. Law, check the perimeter. Viper, stay with Sparrow’s drop.” His voice was steel.
“I’m helping,” Boston said from the doorway.
“You stay close,” Rip growled.
Stone didn’t stay to listen. He was already moving, boots pounding out the back door, down the path toward the beach.
The sun hung low, surf rolling red, sand soft underfoot.
Two sets of tracks pressed into the tide line: one broad, deliberate. Dave’s. The other neat, even. Clinton’s.
Stone’s jaw clenched. He bent, fingers brushing the print. Fresh.
He followed fast, Rip and Winter trailing, Boston a silent shadow. Law had gone around the house, checking in with guards.
Stone barely heard any of it. His whole body locked into rhythm, senses narrowing to the hunt.
The wind carried voices, faint under the crash of surf.
Stone’s heart kicked hard. He pushed faster, every step a vow.
Predator mode locked in.
I will find him.
The pressure in Dave’s chest surged, a familiar burn crawling down his arm.
Fuck. Not now. Not here.
“I need to go back.” His voice was rough.
A firm hand clamped his arm. “Over here, just sit for a minute,” Clinton urged, steering him toward the bluffs.
Maybe that would help.
Dave lowered himself to the sand, jaw clenched.
“Call Stone for me.”
Clinton crouched close, too close. “We don’t need Stone. I can help. You don’t have to fight everything, Dave. Not with me.”
Dave forced his voice through the pain. “Don’t.”
“You carry too much alone,” Clinton pressed. His hands lingered. “You need someone who puts you first. I’d do anything for you.”
Dave shoved weakly at his shoulder. “You think this is loyalty? You don’t know me. Back off.”
Clinton’s jaw worked. “I know you better than any of them. They’ll let you break. I won’t.”
His hand lifted, reaching toward Dave’s face.
And then Stone’s shadow cut across the alcove. Relief hit harder than the pain.
Clinton was gone in a blink—Stone yanked him off Dave and hurled him across the sand like he was a twig.
The man hit hard, skidding out of reach.
Stone’s eyes burned after Clinton, voice like gravel and steel. “You’re a fucking dead man.”
Then he turned, the rage gone from his hands as they slid under Dave’s knees and shoulders, lifting him like he weighed nothing.
Of all the times to be in Stone’s arms, Dave thought grimly, and I can’t do shit about it.
The surf blurred, the pain clawing, but Stone’s heartbeat thundered steady where his head rested against Stone’s chest.
He didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.
Dave’s breath rasped against his collar, shallow but steady. Enough.
Stone carried Dave out of the alcove, strides fueled by rage and fear. Clinton shouted behind them—excuses, lies—but Rip and Winter hauled him away.
Rip growled at Clinton, Boston muttered sharp threats, and Winter stayed silent. None of it mattered.
Stone pressed closer, his grip unshakable. His voice dropped low, steady, just for Dave. “I’ve got you.”
Dave’s hand twitched weakly against his coat. His lips parted, breath rough. But Dave’s eyes found his.
Something raw sparked there. Not command, not defense. Something else.
The surf crashed against the shore as he carried Dave toward the estate.
Stone didn’t look back.
His world was in his arms, and he wasn’t letting go.