Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Six months later…
The Cypress Cove tiki bar
Bayou Mambaloa, Louisiana
McGuire sat at the old wooden table, nursing a beer as the ceiling fans whirled overhead, losing the battle against the thick Louisiana air.
The rising moon glinted off the black water of the backwoods bayou, a layer of clouds moving in fast. Red eyes blinked in the distance, disappearing beneath the inky depths as the constant blue flash of the bug light buzzed in the background.
God, he hated the bayou.
The mosquitos, the gators, the oppressive heat that slapped him in the face whenever he moved. How everywhere smelled like fried shrimp and day-old regret. But mostly, he hated that the backwater, gator-infested small town had saved their lives.
Not literally. His sister, Savvy, had done that.
Scrubbed their military records, erased their civilian files — destroyed any record they’d ever existed.
Then, she’d arranged for a new life as part of the Shadow Hounds.
An off-the-books division of Hank Patterson’s Brotherhood Protectors, run by Remy Montagne, former-Navy SEAL, and McGuire’s current boss.
His team wasn’t flashy — didn’t take the usual jobs the other divisions secured. No glamor shots with five-star accommodations for them. In fact, most of their assignments bordered on illegal. The kind of missions that needed moral fluidity.
Having a family connection to the place had been a godsend.
Had opened doors even Hank wouldn’t have been able to budge.
It didn’t matter that McGuire had never set foot in the bayou before he’d exited the small, commuter plane his sister had chartered, he had the LaSalle name.
And that carried weight. The old adage of blood being thicker than water.
And LaSalle blood was like a voodoo spell down here — mysterious, yet impossible to resist.
McGuire scrubbed a hand down his face, took a pull of his beer as he glanced over at his teammates playing a round of pool.
Thick scruff lined their jaws, clothes slightly wrinkled, they looked more than a bit haggard.
The kind of weariness no amount of sleep fixed.
At least, he wasn’t the only one still adjusting.
Other than Patch.
He’d taken to living off-grid like he’d been born in a mangrove tree, his current place little more than a shack a strong wind could blow over. Not that McGuire’s home was much better. But running water and electricity had been non-negotiable.
Patch ambled over when Stone and Cross started discussing gators as suitable home security, dragging out a chair before collapsing into it.
He looked tired, tense, and McGuire knew more than their last mission weighed on his friend’s shoulders.
The kind of trauma that festered in the dark — filled in the empty spaces until it became its own entity.
Though, that wasn’t a topic his buddy seemed willing to discuss.
McGuire nodded at his best friend as he slapped at a mosquito the size of an aircraft carrier on the back of his neck. “I swear you don’t breathe the air down here, you drink it.”
Patch snorted. “Your sister definitely has a unique sense of humor sending us here.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is twisted.”
Patch grinned. “That she is.”
McGuire rolled his eyes. “God, if you say one more word that can be interpreted the wrong way, I’m gonna shoot you in the ass.”
Savvy and Patch had been on again, off again, for what seemed like forever, though, McGuire knew this last time hadn’t ended well. Another topic they didn’t discuss.
Patch tipped his beer. “Consider the subject closed.”
They sat in silence for a while, the jukebox kicking out some sad country tune. A couple boats chugged out of the dock, the clock on the wall nearing midnight.
The floorboards creaked as Stone crossed the room and slapped McGuire on the shoulder, only a hint of shadows clouding his eyes. “We’re heading out. We’ve got that early run to Baton Rouge for supplies, and Cross is an ogre if he doesn’t get his beauty sleep.”
McGuire nodded as Cross flipped off Stone. “Just don’t bring back any more of that gator jerky. It tastes like a Goodyear tire.”
Cross smiled. “That’s the whole point.”
They gave McGuire and Patch a half-assed salute, still talking as they slipped out the door, their footsteps fading down the wooden walkway.
McGuire shook his head. Despite the circumstances — having left everything and everyone behind, namely his other sister Drew who, like the rest of the world, thought he was dead — they’d adapted. Found a way to matter, when they’d lost the essence of what had defined them.
Made them whole.
He sighed, shifted his focus to the bartender as she crossed the floor. Tall, lean, with long brown hair that hung in ever-present waves down her back, the girl made his heart flutter in all the wrong ways.
Riven.
That’s all. Just those big blue eyes and a sea of unanswered questions.
Even the regulars didn’t seem to know her last name, most calling her “Riv,” or “darlin’,” if they enjoyed pain.
A quick snap of her ever-present bar towel, which she wielded with laser-sharp precision.
She didn’t talk much, floating around the bar like a ghost. There, but small. As if she didn’t want to be noticed.
As if she’d ever blend in. The woman was smart, beautiful, with the kind of curves that put any backroad to shame. She practically glowed beneath the stuttering neon sign behind the bar, her presence larger than life.
Riven gathered the empties, checked the exits, then headed back to the counter, angling so she never gave the room her back.
She settled behind the cash register, gaze making the usual loop — door, dock, exits, them, door again.
Every few minutes, as if she was searching for trouble.
Expecting more than lonely men to stumble through the door.
Patch nudged his arm, smirked. “You’re staring, again.”
McGuire took another sip, toying with the label as he watched her watch the room. “That a crime?”
“With how often you do it, it’s bordering on stalking.”
“Shut up, it’s just…”
How did he say, she intrigued and worried him at the same time? That something about her felt familiar, comfortable. That standing next to her ignited a part of him he’d buried.
Patch eyed him, reading him like a well-worn book. “I’ll shut up if you stop gawking and just ask her out, already.”
McGuire frowned. They’d been sent to the bayou to vanish. Somehow, asking someone like Riven out didn’t fit that description. “What I was going to say is, that something’s off about her.”
“What’s off is that she’s gorgeous, and you haven’t managed to say more than, ‘another beer, please,’ to her since she started working here.” He stared pointedly at McGuire. “Five months ago. It’s sad, really.”
“You’re not any better.”
“That’s because she’s obviously only got eyes for you, brother.
” Patch chuckled when McGuire flipped him off.
“Please, you think I’m the only one who’s noticed?
Cross and Stone see it too. Why do you think they’ve never made a play for her?
Even as thick as they are, they know she’d turn them down in a heartbeat. But you…”
McGuire smiled at the good-natured ribbing. The only way they seemed to get through each day. “It’s complicated.”
“At least she’s not just a voice on the radio. Some invisible entity you’ve been pining over for months.”
“That woman saved our lives.”
“And we’ll all be forever grateful. Doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself in some romantic notion that you’ll find her one day. Return the favor.” Patch leaned closer. “Riven’s exactly the kind of distraction you need.”
“A girl like her doesn’t do distractions. Besides, that not what I meant, and you know it.”
Patch sighed, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I agree she seems a bit out-of-place. Too smooth. Too observant. Like she’s not really a bartender, only playing one on TV.”
“Exactly.” McGuire watched as she flipped a knife, caught the handle on the second rotation before cutting up a bunch of lemon wedges. “I think she’s running from something.”
“Aren’t we all?” Patch tapped his fingers on the counter. “Maybe she’s just trying to find herself.”
“In the swamp?”
“Stranger things, buddy.” Patch met McGuire’s raised brow. Huffed. “Or maybe she’s hiding from an obsessive ex with a ridiculous name. Like Blade or Tank. Or, some new-age hippie who’s all show and no go.”
“It’s not an ex. It’s something darker. Something with teeth.”
“You know one way to find out? Ask her on a date.”
McGuire shook his head. The guy was relentless.
Riven either caught them staring or saw they’d nearly finished their beers and ambled over to them, her feet gliding along the weathered floor.
She didn’t walk, she prowled, gaze drinking in every detail.
And McGuire would bet his ass she’d be able to recite how many people were in the bar — describe exactly what they were all wearing.
She shouldered up between them, a hint of floral sweetness mixing in with stale beer and bad decisions. “Last call, gentlemen. Kitchen’s closed, but if you want another round, you’ve got about fifteen minutes before I shut down the taps.”
Her gaze locked on McGuire’s, held, something similar to kinship flickering in her eyes. As if she recognized the same tightly wound tension in him. The way one predator acknowledged another.
Patch grinned. “Actually, McGuire, here, was just working up the courage to ask you something, weren’t you, buddy?”
McGuire would kill him. Slowly. Very slowly. Then feed what was left of him to the gators.
Riven’s lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile. She swept her gaze the length of McGuire, a hint of red creeping along her cheeks as she nodded. “That so?”
McGuire swallowed, damn near choked, before laughing it off, heart racing, sweat beading down his back. “Patch is an idiot. We’ll just take two more.”