Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The truck rolled to a stop in front of the main house, gravel crunching under the tires like the grinding of Rowan’s own thoughts.
He killed the engine but didn’t move, his fingers still tangled with Enya’s, her skin warm against his calloused palm.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged, kind of like the air before a storm.
He should let go. He knew he should step back.
But hell, he should do a hell of a lot of things…
did he want to? Absolutely not. The last thing he wanted to do was break the hold she had on him with just her thumb tracing slow, absent circles over his knuckles, which made his chest tighten.
Gael appeared in the front doorway. He didn’t call out or wave. The asshole just stood on the stoop with his arms crossed, making Rowan exhale through his nose.
If fucking Mercier called him, I’m going to kick his fucking ass.
Rowan finally pulled his hand free, the loss of Enya’s touch like a physical ache, and pushed open the truck door.
“Stay here,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.
“I’ll be back.” Enya didn’t argue, and Rowan forced himself to turn away before he jumped back into the truck and took off for parts unknown.
Hell, he was damn good at the covert shit, and he’d much prefer to use it to hide away with Enya until they figured out what the connection between them meant.
Gael raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twisting into a teasing smirk. “So, Momma called…”
Shit.
Rowan stumbled as he reached the bottom step, and Gael, the bastard, caught it. He said the first thing that popped into his head to get Gael’s mind off the trajectory it was on. “Mercier called…”
“Huh?” Gael blinked a double-take. “That’s not what I expected you to say…”
Rowan glared at him. “War-room. Five minutes. Get the others.”
“Uh. Sure.” Gael didn’t move. “She staying or going?”
The question walloped him a sucker punch, and Rowan followed his brother’s gaze to the truck. “She’s not ready to go home,” he said quietly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Rowan narrowed his eyes and snarled. “I know what you fucking asked.”
Gael held his hands up, but the smirk playing at his lips said he’d already won this round. “Just making sure you do, too. Five minutes, you said?”
Rowan didn’t bother watching him go. Instead, he turned back to the truck and rested his forearm on the open window frame. Enya didn’t look at him, but her fingers stilled on the box. “You good?” he asked.
She nodded, but the set of her shoulders said otherwise. “I’ll, uh… I’ll find something to do.”
“Enya.” Her name on his lips made her finally turn, her eyes meeting his.
There was fear there, but something else, too—something fiercer.
Determination edged with more than a little stubbornness, both of which were braced by a whole lot of strength.
“You’re not in the way,” he said. “But if you’d rather not be around for this—”
“I’d rather not be sent away,” she cut in, her voice steady. “I can handle it.”
Rowan studied her for a long moment before nodding. “Alright. But if you change your mind while I’m gone, just let Gael or Theo know, and they’ll get you…um…home.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I was kinda starting to think that’s what The Stronghold is starting to feel like...” Wariness flickered in her eyes. “I mean, that’s weird, right?”
No darlin’, it’s not weird, it’s fucking epic.
“Not to me.” He had to force himself to step back before he did something stupid, like lean in and taste her mouth once again.
Instead, he helped her out of the truck, took the pie box, shut the door, and turned toward the house.
Not a moment too soon, as he could see the rest of his men coming up the yard from the barn.
“Go do what you got to do.” Enya took the pies from him as soon as they were in the kitchen. “I’ll sort some food and stuff. Just let me know about half an hour before you are ready for it, okay?”
“Will do.” Flipping the switch from the thrill of a budding relationship to the thrill of a budding mission wasn’t something Rowan had ever struggled with… until now. He paused at the kitchen door and glanced over his shoulder.
“Enya?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks…um…” He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. Thanks for not freaking out? Thanks for the kisses? Thanks for everything? There were so many options and not a single one of them sounded quite right. “Just thanks.”
“I don’t know what for,” she gifted him with the softest of smiles, “but you’re welcome. Go do your thing, cowboy. I’ve got this.” She gestured to the kitchen.
“Okay.” He tapped his hand on the doorframe. What else was there to say?
Mission.
Job.
Work.
Focus, damn it.
He made his way down the hall to the back of the house, and the war-room that hadn’t always been a war-room.
Once, it had been a room that his momma had filled with fabric and quilting supplies.
The window framed a view of the east pasture, golden in the afternoon sun, where the wind rippling through the tall grass was something both Gael and he used to remind themselves they had a bolt hole, a stronghold to retreat to when shit hit the fan, and war fighting was rough on their souls.
Before this room became the war-room, it had been their momma’s haven, but she’d given it to them, so they would have a space to build their business from the ground up.
But that was before. Before the missions, the wars, and the weight of all they had done and would do in the name of their flag, country, and teammates.
Now, the space bore no resemblance to what it had once been.
The walls were lined with screens—some dark, some flickering with static, others alive with feeds from places no civilian would ever see.
Maps overlapped one another like layers of history, each one marked with routes and symbols that meant nothing to an outsider but everything to the men who gathered here.
Topographic lines snaked across one, satellite images blurred another, and a third was nearly obscured by grease pencil scrawls and notes in a language only they understood.
The weapons lockers lining one wall were always locked but always in reach.
The table once again sat in the center of the room.
An altar to the battles they’d fought and the lives they’d saved.
The wood was pocked with knife marks, the remnants of impatient blades tapping against the surface during long hours of planning.
Burn rings from forgotten coffees and half-empty glasses left their own stories, each one a silent testament to the nights they’d spent hunched over blueprints and intel, waiting for the order to move.
This was where Stronghold the ranch ended and Stronghold the war fighters began.
Rowan stepped through the door, and the familiar weight of command settled over him like a second skin—thick, unshakable, a reminder of who he was when he wasn’t just a rancher.
The hum of the screens was a low, constant pulse beneath the murmur of his men’s voices.
He didn’t need to look to know everyone was already here.
He could feel them, the way a predator senses the shift in the wind before the hunt.
Where else would they freaking be?
You command, they show up, that’s the deal.
Valley was already sprawled in his chair like he owned the damn place, boots propped up on a lower rung, one arm slung over the backrest. His grin was lazy, but his eyes were sharp as he tracked the intel populating the main screen.
Titan stood off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable as ever, but his stance betrayed nothing—no tension, no anticipation, just the quiet readiness of a man built for violence.
Scout leaned against the wall near the maps, his posture deceptively relaxed, though Rowan knew better. The man was a ghost when he wanted to be, but right now, he was watching and absorbing, his gaze flicking between the screens and the door like he was already three steps ahead.
“Yo, boss. You want to tell us what’s going on with you and En—”
“Shut it.” How was he supposed to tell Jericho what was going on when he didn’t understand or know himself?”
“That’s not very nice, boss.”
“I don’t give a shit if it is or not.” Rowan rounded the table and took his place next to Gael. “Focus, assholes. We got shit to do, and decisions to be made.”
“You act like you don’t give a fuck that he shut you down,” Colson needled Jericho, “ never mind two.”
“A fuck must be earned. I ain’t got no bucket full of them to be goin’ around handing ’em out like fucking smarties,” Jericho deadpanned. “Do epic shit. Earn that motherfuckin fuck, and I might give a fuck about it.”
“You’re threading dangerous waters there, bro. You really should introduce your upper lip to your lower lip sometime and shut the hell up.” Gael jabbed his index finger on the table. “Theo, you’re up. Lay it out for us, stat.”
Theo leaned back in his chair with a coffee mug cradled in one hand, his usual calm demeanor intact.
“I don’t think we’re done discussing Rowan getting laid ye—” Valley’s grin widened. “Boss.” He drew the word out, savoring it. “Before we go talking about the mission, I think we should spend a little time talking about the show you and our girl gave in town.”
The room seemed to tilt, just for a second. Rowan’s jaw tightened, the muscle feathering once beneath his skin. His fingers flexed against the table, but his expression didn’t change. “Careful, Vale.”
“Oh, I’m real careful,” Valley shot back, his tone light, his eyes anything but. They gleamed with the kind of amusement that came from poking a sleeping lion. “Careful enough to notice when our fearless leader walks in looking like he forgot what planet he’s on.”
A low chuckle rumbled from Titan’s direction. “You look downright distracted, ’at’s for sure.”