Chapter 20
GIDEON
The beach is quiet at midnight; the world hushed beneath a sky slicked with stars. Only the rhythmic whisper of waves meeting the shore, soft and ceaseless, like a lullaby drawn out by the sea itself. Galveston rarely sleeps—it pulses with life even in the deepest hours—but tonight, the beach feels changed. Not empty, not still. Just aware. As if it has borne witness to the collapse of something dark and heavy and now stands watch as something new takes root. The air holds its breath, reverent and expectant, cradling the edge of a beginning.
Maggie and I slip off our shoes and step onto the cool sand, walking hand-in-hand through the hush of midnight. Her fingers lace with mine, cool and steady, but her energy thrums with quiet confidence. She takes each step with grounding, deliberate movements, as if she belongs in this in-between place—where sky meets water, and something ancient whispers in the waves. The moon hangs swollen and bright above us, casting molten silver over her bare skin, and turning her hair into a tangle of stormlight and promise. She looks over at me; her smile soft and sure, edged with something new: peace.
“Care to go for a run?” she says.
“I can think of few things I’d rather do,” I say in a low, seductive growl.
We stop near the dunes, where the sand stretches pale and unbroken, shimmering under the moon’s watchful gaze. Maggie turns to me with a half-smile, the kind that dares me to look away—and promises I won’t want to. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches for the hem of her t-shirt and pulls it over her head, the fabric sliding upward like a caress. The moonlight follows every inch of newly revealed skin, casting her in silver and shadow, soft and powerful all at once. When the shirt clears her head, she shakes out her hair—wild and free—and folds the shirt with casual care, placing it atop a flat rock with reverence, as though this undressing is a ritual shared only between us and the stars.
Piece by piece, she undresses—sliding off her jeans with a slow roll of her hips, then her underthings with the kind of grace that makes the night hold its breath. Her body is bare, not with shyness, but with purpose. She moves like a woman who has shed more than fabric—like she’s sloughing off fear and doubt with each layer. Lean and luminous in the moonlight, her figure is all shadowed curves and quiet command, shaped by strength and softened by survival. The breeze caresses her skin, and she welcomes it. There’s no shame in her stance, only fierce composure. No hesitation, just the undeniable presence of someone who has claimed every piece of herself—and is now letting me see it all.
I can’t move, can’t breathe. Watching her like that—with the moonlight painting her skin in soft silver and the sea breeze teasing strands of her hair loose—feels like witnessing something elemental and untouchable. She’s luminous, carved from shadow and starlight, a woman not trying to become anything but simply being everything. Power curls beneath her skin like a promise, her stance both unguarded and unshakable. It’s not just that she’s beautiful—though she is—it’s that she stands there fully seen, fully known, and wholly unafraid. And I want nothing more than to deserve to be beside her in this moment.
Awe prickles under my skin like static as I tug off my shirt, then unfasten my jeans with practiced ease, folding both garments with a reverence that mirrors the quiet intensity in my chest. Every movement feels deliberate, tethered to something sacred. My pulse thuds—not just from the hum of attraction that never truly dulls around her—but from something deeper, bone-deep. This moment isn’t about possession. It isn’t even about passion, though it simmers hot and constant. It’s about honoring what we’ve become together. Something wild. Something earned. Something permanent.
She moves toward me, slow and sure, the soft pads of her feet whispering against the sand. Her gaze never leaves mine, bold and steady, and when she reaches me, her fingers slip into mine without hesitation. The contact is grounding, electric. Together, we step forward, letting the space between us widen only as much as necessary for the transformation to begin—the moment intimate and inevitable.
The mist comes fast, rising like breath from the belly of the earth. It curls around our ankles, not cold or damp like fog, but warm and electric, shot through with threads of gold and silver that shimmer like starlight caught in motion. The air pulses with it—an almost silent thrum, like a heartbeat too large for one body to hold. The scent of it is wild and grounding all at once, like pine smoke and rain-soaked stone, ancient and familiar. As the mist thickens, it seems to recognize us, folding around Maggie with a kind of reverence, brushing against her bare skin like a whisper of welcome. It climbs higher, tugging at the edges of what will be. Lightning flickers faintly inside it, veiled and playful, as thunder rolls far off like a drumbeat marking time. It doesn’t feel like a warning. It feels like a promise. A reckoning of blood and bone. Like coming home.
Her wolf form stands tall beside me—radiant and wild. Her coat gleams like burnished gold, woven through with streaks of sunlight that dance with every shift of her body. The hues in her fur seem alive, flickering like firelight, casting a glow even under the moon’s silver gaze. Her eyes—no longer just amber, but molten—shine with a fierce clarity that takes my breath. Intelligence burns in them, sharp and knowing. Pride. Power. Freedom. She doesn’t just look like herself; she looks more. Transcendent. A creature born not of myth, but of memory and magic.
Beside her, my wolf stands steady—darker, more grounded. My coat ripples with charcoal and ash, my frame broad and unshakable. Together, we are contrast and complement, shadow and flame. We don’t move at first. We don’t need to. The bond between us hums like a live wire, a pulse exchanged through breath and silence. And when we finally turn to the shoreline, it’s not with urgency. It’s with intent. Two wolves. One rhythm. A promise written into the night.
Then we run. Together, we surge forward as if the earth itself has whispered go . Our paws strike the sand in perfect rhythm, spraying fine grains into the air like stardust, the cool ocean breeze slicing through our fur as we race. This isn't survival. This isn't duty. It’s something older, purer—the pure thrill of freedom. The tide roars beside us, whitecaps catching the moonlight, echoing our joy with each crashing wave. Our bodies stretch into motion, a blur of golden fire and shadowed steel, two wolves streaking down the shoreline, breathless, alive, and limitless. There is no destination, only the rhythm of our bond, the celebration of what we’ve survived—and who we’ve become. Nothing chases us. Nothing holds us. There is only this: the night, the sea, and everything ahead.
The surf laps at our heels, a steady rhythm to match the thunder of my heart. Above us, stars spin in their endless celestial dance, distant but radiant, like they’re bearing witness. And between the earth and sky, there is her—my mate, my fire, the axis on which my world turns. Every part of my soul finds anchor in her presence. She runs beside me like she’s always belonged to the wild, like the sea knows her name. There’s no fear anymore. No duty. No past grief clawing at my spine. Just her. Wild and golden. And mine.
Eventually, we slow, breath coming hard and fast, hearts still drumming from the thrill of our run. The mist rolls in to meet us once more, curling around our legs with a sentient kind of grace, like it remembers our shapes and stories. It shimmers gold in the moonlight, soft as breath, alive with heat and memory. As we return to human form, the mist dissolves around us, leaving a whisper of warmth in its wake.
We collapse onto the blanket we brought, limbs tangled and skin cooling under the coastal breeze. Sand clings to our calves and forearms, tiny grains etched like stars against flesh. The surrounding air is thick with salt, the faint trace of ozone, and something more elusive—something that feels like magic not just in the air, but in our blood.
The beach cradles us, quiet and endless, as if the sea itself has fallen into awe-struck silence. The tide moves with reverence, gentle and rhythmic, like a lullaby played in the key of breath and heartbeat. Above us, the stars blink into place one by one, a thousand tiny witnesses to the making of something sacred. Around us, the sand holds our shared heat, a cradle of warmth and wonder, the imprint of two souls newly written into the story of the earth. And within the hush, it is not silence we hear—but belonging, vast and certain.
Maggie turns onto her side, her skin still kissed with the memory of the mist and the salt-streaked wind. She lifts her fingers to her neck, brushing over the mark—no longer raw or searing, but something else entirely. It shimmers beneath her touch like liquid moonlight, no longer a scar but a promise etched into flesh. The sensation sends a pulse through her body, not pain, but recognition. Her breath catches in her throat, and when she speaks, it’s barely more than a reverent whisper, shaped by awe and truth.
“I get it now.”
I look at her, my palm rising to cup her jaw. “I didn’t bite you because I had to. I did it because I couldn’t imagine a world where you weren’t mine.”
She blinks slowly, then leans forward and kisses me—soft at first, then deeper, lingering like she could pour everything she feels into that single moment. When we part, our breaths tangle, and she eases against me, curling into the steady thrum of my heartbeat. Her cheek rests over my heart, bare skin to bare skin, warm and alive beneath the open sky. The moon creeps higher, casting silver across our bodies, and the waves roll on in a rhythm that feels less like background and more like benediction.
“What happens now?” she asks. “Still worried about that noble brother’s code?”
I smile. “Nah. I say from now on, we write our own code.”
And under the rising moon, we do.
* * *
Deacon
The woman at the bar doesn’t belong here.
I knew it the second I walked in.
The Devil’s Den is the kind of place where desperate men come to make bad decisions, and where worse men come to make sure those poor decisions turn into something permanent. A hole-in-the-wall dive sitting on the edge of the Texas border, it reeks of cheap whiskey, cigarette smoke, and violence waiting to happen.
And yet, there she is.
Perched on a cracked leather barstool, her shoulders squared like she’s daring someone to look at her the wrong way. A whiskey glass sits untouched in front of her, and her gaze flicks around the room like she’s memorizing faces, looking for something—or someone.
She’s got trouble written all over her.
Not in the usual way, though. She’s not a cartel princess slumming it in the dark corners of hell, and she’s sure as hell not looking to pick up one of these lowlifes. She’s dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted jacket, and a ponytail that doesn’t do a damn thing to hide the sharp edge of her jawline.
She doesn’t belong here. And she knows it.
But she’s not leaving.
I sip my beer, keeping my posture loose, casual, even as my gut tightens. Because I know who she is.
Sutton Blake.
Daughter of a decorated officer. Good girl with bad luck. Witness to something she shouldn’t have seen.
She’s also not supposed to be here.
We started tracking Hollister’s last remaining enforcers weeks ago. The bastard might be dead, but his reach lingers, his men still moving in the shadows, covering their tracks, settling old debts. Sutton’s name came up exactly once in our intel—just a blip in a report, a neighbor who noticed too much.
I was supposed to track her, make sure she didn’t stick her nose in places it didn’t belong. Keep her safe from a distance.
That plan is already going to shit.
Because here she is, parked in the middle of cartel territory, looking for a man who would snap her neck before she had time to scream.
I exhale through my nose, tapping my knuckles against the bottle in my hand. A slow beat. Calculating.
How the hell do I play this?
If I walk up to her and tell her to leave, she’ll dig in deeper. I’ve seen the type—determined, guilt-ridden, too damn stubborn for their own good.
But if I let her stay?
I glance toward the back of the bar. A group of men sit huddled in a dark booth, their voices low, their body language tense. I don’t need enhanced senses to know they’re watching her, too.
I curse under my breath. Too late. She’s already made an impression.
Sutton moves, pulling out her phone and typing something, then tucking it away. Her fingers tap against the bar, restless. She’s waiting for something.
Or someone.
My jaw ticks. Time to move.
I push away from the bar, making my way toward her, keeping my steps measured, my approach calculated. I don’t know what she’s expecting, but she sure as hell isn’t expecting me.
I lean in just enough to invade her space, just enough to make her stiffen. Good. That means she’s paying attention.
“You’re in the wrong bar, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice low enough that only she hears.
She turns her head slowly, her hazel eyes sharp, assessing. Not scared—curious.
“You don’t even know what I’m looking for,” she says, her tone even.
I let out a rough chuckle, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not gonna find it here.”
Her lips curve into something that isn’t quite a grin but isn’t not one either. “You don’t even know me.”
I adjust my posture, letting her feel the heat of my presence, letting her understand that I’m not just some asshole at a bar.
“Oh, but I do.” I tilt my head, letting my gaze flicker over her, slow, deliberate. “Sutton Blake. Good girl with a bad habit of getting into things that aren’t her business.”
Her breath hitches. Gotcha.
But she recovers fast. She narrows her eyes. “And who the hell are you?”
I grin. “I’m the guy who’s going to keep you alive if you listen.”
Her fingers flex on the bar. “And if I don’t?”
I step even closer, my voice dropping into something darker, something final.
“Then, sweetheart, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”
She exhales slowly, but she doesn’t look away and doesn’t back down.
And damn it all to hell, I know right then and there—this woman is going to be a problem.
A big one.
* * *