Chapter Fifteen
Voices carried from room to room, low and clipped—the kind that came from people working around each other without needing direction.
Boots crossed hardwood in steady patterns.
Someone moved through the kitchen. A deputy’s radio crackled faintly somewhere deeper in the house before going quiet again.
The air smelled faintly of powder and something coppery beneath it. Not strong enough to choke the room, just enough to sit in the back of the throat and remind you what had already happened here.
It sat heavy against his skin, warm from too many bodies moving through it, carrying the aftermath with it.
It wasn’t loud—but it wasn’t quiet either. The kind of space that never fully settled.
Across from him, the photo still sat in Sage’s hands.
The deceased, Cain, easy to pick out even in a still image. And the man beside him.
Law’s attention didn’t go to the picture.
It went to Sage.
A fraction of a second later, Sage went still. Not surprise. Not confusion. Recognition.
It hit fast—subtle, but there. A tightening through his frame like something had just locked into place.
Law stepped closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to close the space between them.
Close enough to feel the heat off him.
“You know him.” Law flicked a finger at the other man in the photo.
Sage didn’t look up right away. His gaze stayed on the photo a beat longer, like he was confirming something for himself before he gave it out.
“Yeah.” Flat. “Rook.”
“So, this is Rook,” Law murmured.
The name settled into the room.
“Damn it, Cain. What the hell did you get yourself into?” Sage muttered at the deceased man.
Memphis huffed under his breath, shifting closer to look at the photo.
Micah moved too, his gaze flicking from the picture to Sage.
“You knew Adrian. You know Cain. You running a fan club I don’t know about?” Micah asked lightly. “Or do I need to start worrying you’ve got an enemy, buddy?”
There was a faint thread of humor in it—just enough to keep it from landing hard.
Sage didn’t answer right away.
He went still.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just a quiet lock in his shoulders, a fraction too tight to pass as nothing.
Law caught it.
The room kept moving around them—voices, footsteps, someone crossing behind him—but that moment held, thin and tight.
Like everything else blurred around it and this didn’t.
Sage’s gaze stayed on the photo.
Boston leaned in just enough to get a better look at the photo, head tilting, eyes flicking between Cain and the man beside him in the picture.
“Man,” he muttered, not bothering to lower his voice, “you sure know a lot of dead guys.”
“I know a lot of people,” he said finally. Flat. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
Boston made a small noise like he didn’t buy that for a second, but he didn’t push.
Micah’s eyes lingered a beat longer before he let it go, easy as he’d brought it up.
Law didn’t.
Because that stillness—
That was the same kind of control he’d seen before.
Different place. Different setting.
Same kind of quiet.
Law shifted a step closer, closing the space between them without making it a move anyone else would clock.
Sage was right there—close enough that the awareness came back without warning, not a thought so much as a physical memory, the exact feel of his mouth still too clear to ignore.
Warm. Immediate. Not distant enough to file away yet.
Law pushed it down just as fast as it surfaced, setting it aside where it wouldn’t interfere. Later.
“So—”
Law paused for half a second, buying himself time. Not hesitation. Just choosing the angle. The dance hall meeting between Sage and the suit guy sat in the back of his mind, not loud, just present—something unfinished he hadn’t pushed yet.
“Could this have been related to—”
The front door jammed with a crack against the wall.
The sound snapped sharply through the room, cutting straight through the low hum of voices.
Everything in the room snapped toward it.
Winter was already moving inside before whoever had let him through could say a word. His shirt had been sliced open straight up the front, fabric parted and darkened at the edges where blood had soaked in.
He didn’t slow until he was fully inside the room.
Up close, the damage was clearer.
The cut ran across his chest, angled just enough to miss anything vital but close enough to make the point. Blood edged the fabric where it had been sliced open, dark and steady—not spraying, not panicked. Intentional.
On purpose.
The iron tang scent sharpened, fresh now.
Law’s gaze tracked it once, quick and precise, already measuring distance, angle, intent.
His pulse didn’t spike—just narrowed, focus tightening down to a point.
It wasn’t a sloppy hit or a miss—it was a warning.
Winter pushed the ruined fabric back like it was nothing more than an inconvenience, exposing the cut without concern.
“What the fuck happened?” Rip asked, coming in from another room. His gaze swept once over the sliced shirt.
“He’s damned good,” Winter muttered.
“Rook?” Boston piped up.
Winter’s attention shifted. “That’s his name?”
“That’s what Sage just told us.” Boston nodded, and Winter’s gaze moved to Sage.
“Yeah. I know of him. He ran with a different group—same circles, just older.” Sage gave a small shrug.
Winter angled his chin toward the chalk line. “And that guy?”
“That was Cain. One of the lost boys.”
Winter’s gaze flicked back to Law, something sharper there now. “So, assassins killing assassins.”
“And Sage knows all the victims,” Micah added quietly.
The room went still.
“Well, the suspect got away.”
Winter didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t dress it up. Just dropped it into the room like a fact.
“Where’d you lose him?” Rip swore under his breath, a hand dragging through his hair as he started pacing off the space.
“Hold still,” Memphis said, stepping in closer, eyes tracking Winter’s open shirt. He reached out and eased open the cut shirt, checking the wound. “Not too deep. Won’t even need stitches.”
Winter’s icy blue eyes settled on Memphis but he answered Rip.
“Back exit of a convenience store,” Winter said. “I think he knows the owner.”
Boston let out a low whistle. “Then we have a lead.”
Black didn’t say anything. He shifted slightly, weight settling, eyes moving once through the room—Sage, the body, the door—taking it all in without comment.
Law stayed where he was.
He’d already logged Winter’s injury. The angle. The control behind it. The slice was precise. Not wild.
This wasn’t luck.
This was someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and exactly how not to kill.
He shifted his attention back to Sage.
Didn’t move much. Just enough to close the space again, subtle and deliberate, creating a pocket between them that didn’t break the flow of the room.
Close enough that everything else dulled at the edges.
“Walk me through this,” Law said, voice low enough it didn’t carry past Sage.
Sage’s gaze flicked up to him then, sharp for a second—aware. Not just of the question.
Law didn’t move.
He held it there.
“He’s not random,” Sage said quietly. “He’s picking people he knows. Or people who know him.”
Law didn’t break eye contact.
“Rook.” It wasn’t a question.
“Maybe.”
“Why is he cleaning house?”
A slight shift in Sage’s shoulders.
“I think he’s working through something,” Sage said. “And he’s not done.”
That landed between them, heavier than anything else that had been said.
Law nodded once. Maybe the meeting with the suit guy had no bearing on this at all.
“Then we don’t give him time to end more lives,” he said quietly.
Sage’s gaze flicked to his mouth for half a second—there and gone.
“Yeah,” he breathed softly.
Law swallowed over a suddenly dry throat.
The dryness stuck, not going anywhere.
“Check this out,” Boston said suddenly, walking over with several photos in his hands.
They showed Rook with the deceased, alongside a woman with two kids.
“Who is she?” Sage took one of the photos from Boston and studied the pretty blonde woman standing between Rook and Cain.
“The back of this one says Monica, Summerlin, Nevada.”
Memphis straightened from attending to Winter. “We need that store locked down. Cameras, owner, everything. And you need a fucking bandage.”
“Yes, Dad,” Winter snarked.
“You’re older than I am,” Memphis muttered.
“Am I?” Winter’s lips twitched.
Memphis squinted, eyeing him. “Dunno.”
Boston laughed.
“I’ll go see the store owner,” Rip said, already moving.
“I’m going with you,” Boston added, shoving the photos at Sage before falling in beside Rip.
Rip hesitated.
Boston glared. “I’m going.”
The big man gave a pained sigh but continued out the door.
Black peeled off behind them without a word, and Micah hurried after the small group.
Winter dragged his shirt back into place like the cut didn’t exist. “You think he’ll circle back?”
“If he does, we’ll be waiting,” Memphis said.
“I doubt he’ll be back,” Sage murmured, shifting his gaze to the photos.
“Maybe she’s the key,” Law murmured, looking at the woman in the photo.
Movement picked up again, the room resetting into purpose.
Law stayed where he was for a beat longer, just enough to let Sage feel him there beside him—offering what comfort he could by his sheer presence.
Solid. Unmoving. Something Sage could lean on without being asked to.