Chapter 9
HOLT
T he cookies are gone. Every last crumb.
And yeah, maybe I licked the chocolate off the foil because fuck if I was wasting anything that came from her hands.
The coffee is long gone too, the travel mug sitting empty in the console like it served its purpose and died a hero.
I’ve got the heater on low, windows just fogged enough to blur the world without fully blocking it.
My phone is facedown on the dash after I let the guys know I’m on scope tonight.
They’ll handle the evening prep while I keep watch, then I’ll head back after dawn to help with the marquee and return to Cindy’s.
Cindy. Fuck.
She kissed me.
No, that’s not right. I kissed her, and she let me, and she kissed me back with that soft, needy sound in her throat I’m still hearing like it’s etched into the damn lining of my skull.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, thumb pressing into the leather where it’s already worn smooth.
I’ve been kissed a thousand times, had women beg for more with their mouths and their moans and their heats. But Cindy?
That was different.
That was everything.
And the second I got close, I knew it. She’s my scent match. No room for doubt anymore, not after the way her skin warmed under mine, her pulse kicked up, her slick perfuming the air so thick I could taste it without even parting her thighs.
She knows it. Omegas always do. It blooms like something ancient, something primal, something deep in the marrow.
I rub a hand down my face, slowly, then reach to adjust my cock through my jeans because it’s still half hard and aching like a motherfucker.
It’s been hours, and I’m still strung tight from just a kiss and a whiff of her slick.
I didn’t even get to touch her properly, didn’t get to taste her.
She was wearing that summer dress, the one that clings in the right places and makes it impossible to think straight, and all I wanted was to tear it in half.
Rip it from her shoulders, bare her soft curves, and press my mouth to the heat between her thighs.
She’s magic. The kind that ruins a man. And I’m going to let her.
I stare at the side of her house from across the road.
Her porch light is still on, like she promised.
One dim light upstairs, just enough to tell me she’s there and settled.
The house is quiet, the neighborhood dead.
Trees lining the street sway gently in the breeze, rustling like whispers.
A few cats have wandered past. Someone three doors down just got home a little while ago and slammed their car door loudly.
But here? At this location on her street? Still. Silent.
I’ve got eyes on the front door, on the window that shows a sliver of the living room, and that upstairs light I’ve memorized. It’s the best angle. No dead spots. Nothing she can’t scream through if something goes wrong.
Not that anything is going to.
Because I’m here.
I crack the window half an inch and breathe in the cool night air. Still smells like her. I want to drown in it. I adjust my cock again, biting off a curse, jaw tight. I’m not going to make it the week at this rate.
Two hours pass. I’m yawning into my sleeve, trying not to blink too long because I might slip into sleep. I never fall asleep on watch. Ever. But my body is fighting me tonight, and I hate how fucking soft it feels.
Then the lights go out.
Just…off.
No flicker. No fade. Just gone.
Porch and upstairs, both at once.
My entire spine locks.
I lean forward in the driver’s seat, eyes narrowed, blood already thundering in my ears. What the fuck?
Maybe the bedroom light, sure. But the porch? She told me she was leaving it on. Insisted, even. Said she liked knowing I was out here. I watched her switch the lights earlier, saw the way she went around the house. These aren’t set on timers, and they don’t trip together like that.
This is wrong.
Every instinct in my body is screaming.
I pop the glove box, grab the blade stashed in a leather sheath, and tuck it into the back of my jeans. I reach under the seat next, where I keep the compartment latched to the rail. Pull out the Glock, smooth and fast, and tuck it into my waistband at the front.
My belt is custom. Reinforced. Slim steel hooks beneath the leather designed to hold weapons flat against my body without the bulk of a holster.
The guys both have the same rig. We had them made a few years back when shit got hairy with the rival club near Portside.
You learn to move fast and smart when there’s always a threat on the horizon.
Gun secure. Blade in place.
I open the car door without a sound and step into the night.
The air is colder now, breeze sharper. My boots barely whisper against the pavement as I cross the street, eyes sweeping the surrounding area.
No lights on in the neighbor’s townhouse.
No sign of movement in any window. Nothing but the low hiss of wind through the trees and the pounding of blood in my ears.
Something is off. I feel it in my gut, in the way my skin prickles like a warning. Like the universe clearing its throat and saying Pay attention .
I move faster.
The porch is dark, but I know where the weak step is and avoid it. I don’t knock. I don’t call out. If something is wrong, announcing myself could make it worse.
Instead, I press my back to the brick wall beside the door and listen. I try the door, and it’s locked.
Nothing else.
No footsteps. No voices. Not even the creak of the floorboards upstairs. The quiet isn’t peaceful anymore. It’s loaded. Tense. Something is fucking wrong.
I move to the edge of the porch and scan the side of the house, looking for shadows, movement, anything that might explain the blackout.
Electrical issue? Sure. Could be. But the power lines aren’t down.
Her neighbor doesn’t have lights, but it had been dark since I started my surveillance. The rest of the block is lit up.
No. This isn’t random.
I step down onto the path, boots crunching over gravel, and follow it toward the backyard gate. My hand wraps around the latch. Still locked.
I flick it open, slowly and silently, and ease the gate inward.
Darkness presses in around me, the kind that feels like it’s breathing, watching. Every step down the side of the house sets off alarm bells in my spine. My palm goes to the blade tucked into my waistband.
I don’t want to break in. Don’t want to scare her. But if something has happened?
I’ll tear the fucking door off its hinges.
Please not her. Not tonight. Not under my watch.
If someone is inside? I’ll gut them.
No hesitation.
I knock. Hard. Once. Twice.
No answer.
The silence has weight. Too heavy. Too still.
I step back, tense, assessing the structure. Could be someone inside. Could be nothing. But my instincts are flaring red-hot. That itching, clawing sensation deep in my chest that says something is off.
I shift my weight, muscles coiling. Ready to?—
Meow.
The sound rips through the tension like a knife. I whirl around, blade halfway drawn?—
A shadow detaches from the darkness.
No. Not a shadow.
A goddamn tank of a cat.
Black. Huge. Tail like a feather duster, fur thick as hell, and glowing green eyes fixed right on me like I’m the intruder here.
Maine Coon. Has to be.
The bastard doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just pads up the path like he owns the place. Like he summoned me.
He strolls right up and plants his fat ass in the middle of the path.
I stare down at him. “The fuck are you supposed to be? King Kong Kitty, or Lucifer perhaps?”
The cat blinks. Slow. Judgy.
“Well, all right, then, Fluffzilla,” I mutter, sidestepping the beast. “You’d better get your furry ass home before someone mistakes you for a small bear.”
I turn back to the rear door. “Cindy!”
Still nothing.
Then I hear something.
A voice. Soft. Strained.
I freeze, breath locking in my throat.
There’s a sound.
Barely audible through the thick walls, but it cuts through the quiet like a blade.
Muffled. Distant. I can’t even be sure I heard it right.
It wasn’t a normal noise. It had the shape of a scream, the way it rose too fast and ended too sharply.
It doesn’t matter that I can’t make out the words or that I might be imagining it.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up.
Everything in me goes tight and hot.
Fear crackles up my spine, morphing into rage so fast I see red.
She’s in there.
And something is wrong.
I fucking knew Van was going to try something.
Knew he was the type of scum who’d wait until I blinked, until I let my guard down.
He must’ve snuck in. Back window? Basement?
He’s quiet. Cowardly. The kind of bastard who doesn’t break down doors…
just slithers through cracks and waits to strike when no one is looking.
My hand goes to the back door before I realize I’ve even moved.
And this time, I don’t knock.
I crouch low, fingers brushing the handle.
I reach into the pocket of my shirt and pull the thin roll of tools I always carry with me. One glance over my shoulder to scan the yard again, and then I’m working.
The pick slides in, teeth feeling for the mechanism. Years of experience take over. I don’t need to see. Just feel. A soft click, then another. The last tumbler gives way with a whisper of metal.
Then I ease the door open and step inside.
I slip inside.
A draft hits me. The air is heavy, warm, but something is off. A little too quiet. My boot nudges something soft, fur brushing my leg, and I jerk, gun raised before I realize it’s the damn cat again. It must’ve followed me, and it’s now darting into the house.
“Jesus,” I hiss. “Creepy little bastard.”
It vanishes into the dark hallway, tail flicking.
I don’t care.
I shut the door behind me. Lock it again.