Chapter 12
NOAH
I was halfway through my workout, sweat dripping down my back, the clang of weights echoing in Dominion Hall’s gym.
Ryker was spotting me, grunting something about my form being shit, but I barely heard him—my head was still spinning from that dream.
Hallie Mae, bare and wild, her taste haunting me, her cries ringing in my ears—I’d woken up hard, sheets wrecked, and the burn in my muscles wasn’t enough to shake her out of me.
Then my phone buzzed on the bench, cutting through the haze.
I dropped the bar, let it crash louder than it needed to, and grabbed the phone.
Her name lit up the screen—Hallie Mae—and something twisted in my gut, sharp and cold.
Not lust, not this time. Instinct.
Something was wrong.
I swiped to answer, pressing it to my ear, breath still heavy from the reps.
“Noah,” she whispered, her voice cracking on the edge, fragile like glass about to shatter.
“Hallie Mae?” I said, already moving, wiping sweat off my face with my forearm.
A beat. Then, so soft I almost missed it: “I need you.”
Three words, raw and desperate, hit me like a fist to the chest.
“I’m coming,” I said, no hesitation, no question.
I hung up, grabbed my keys from the bench, and turned to Ryker, who was eyeing me like he knew shit was about to hit.
“Find out what’s happened,” I barked, already heading for the door. “Tap the cops, anything in the area. Now.”
“On it,” he said, no bullshit, already pulling his own phone out.
I didn’t wait for more—bolted to my truck, feet pounding the hardwood, the dream’s heat replaced by a different fire.
Something was off, bad off, and every cell in me screamed to get to her.
I peeled out of Dominion Hall, tires screeching on asphalt, the engine roaring as I pushed it hard toward Mount Pleasant.
The sky was gray, heavy with clouds that looked ready to choke the sun, and it matched the weight settling in my chest.
I wasn’t halfway there when my phone rang again, buzzing against the dash.
Ryker.
I hit speaker, kept my eyes on the road. “What?”
“Shooting in Estill,” he said, voice tight. “Pastor. Last name Calhoun. He’s dead.”
My hands gripped the wheel until my knuckles whitened.
“They get the shooter?”
“No,” Ryker said. “Still looking.”
“Put everything on it,” I snapped. “Give the cops whatever they need—resources, intel, anything.”
Then I stopped, jaw clenching, rethinking it fast.
“No—scratch that. Keep the authorities out. Get me the info. I’ll handle it.”
Ryker didn’t argue—knew better. “Got it. Working it now.”
He hung up, and I floored the gas, the truck lurching as the speedometer climbed.
Estill. Her dad. A pastor named Calhoun, shot dead, and no one in custody.
My mind raced, piecing it together—her voice, that broken “I need you,” the grief I hadn’t heard yet but knew was coming.
Sex was the last thing on my mind now, burned out by the need to get to her, shield her, fix whatever the hell had shattered her world.
I tried to picture it—what she was thinking, feeling, locked in that little apartment with the weight of this crushing her.
Was she crying? Screaming? Staring at nothing, lost in that quiet way she had when shit got heavy?
I didn’t know—couldn’t know—and it gnawed at me, the not-knowing.
I’d seen grief before, carved it into men with my own hands, but her?
She was different.
Soft where I was hard, good where I was stained.
And now she was hurting, bad, and I was still miles away.
The streets blurred past—wet asphalt, sagging oaks, the Lowcountry waking slow under that burnished sky.
My pulse thumped steady, and I kept my breathing even, training kicking in.
Didn’t matter how fast I drove; I couldn’t outrun what was waiting.
Her dad—shot, gone.
Some bastard out there with blood on his hands, still breathing when he shouldn’t be.
I’d find him. I’d end him.
But first, her.
I pulled up to her building, tires squealing as I braked hard, and bolted out, taking the stairs two at a time.
Didn’t knock—just pushed the door open, and there she was, crumpled on the kitchen floor, cotton dress pooled around her like a wilted flower.
Her face—Christ, her face—pale, eyes red and hollow, grief etched so deep it looked like it’d never leave.
She saw me, and when I bent down, something broke—she stumbled up, crashed into my arms, and folded against me like she couldn’t stand on her own.
“He’s dead,” she choked, voice ragged, hands fisting my shirt. “Daddy’s dead.”
I wrapped my arms around her, tight, her body trembling against mine, her breath hot and uneven on my neck.
“I’ve got you,” I said, low, soothing, the only thing I could think to get out.
I didn’t know how to console her—never been good at soft words or gentle lies.
My gift was hunting, killing, ending threats.
Not this.
But she clung to me, sobbing, and I held her, jaw tight, letting her break against me like waves on a cliff.
“He’s dead,” she kept saying, over and over, a mantra of pain, her fingers digging into my chest like she could claw the truth out.
I didn’t say anything—just stood there, solid, letting her lean until the sobs slowed, her breathing hitching into something quieter, emptier.
My shirt was damp with her tears, her hair sticking to my skin, and I didn’t care—didn’t care about anything but her, right then.
Inside, I was already planning—tracking the shooter, running the angles, figuring out how to put a bullet in the bastard’s skull.
She didn’t need to know that, not now.
Didn’t need to see the part of me that thrived on blood and payback.
I’d keep that locked down, let her have this moment, this collapse, without the weight of what I’d do next.
She’d just calmed enough—her shaking easing, her grip loosening—when I guided her to the sofa, sitting her down gentle, her hands still clutching mine like a lifeline.
Before I could say anything, a knock hit the door—sharp, official, three raps that made my hackles rise.
I went still, instincts flaring, and slipped my hand to my waist, pulling the pistol from its holster.
Kept it low, out of her sight, and stalked to the door, every muscle coiled.
Peered through the peephole—two cops, uniforms crisp, faces grim.
I exhaled, slid the gun back into my waistband, and opened the door.
They didn’t blink at me—just nodded, eyes shifting past to Hallie Mae, still hunched on the sofa, pale as a ghost.
“Miss Calhoun?” one of them said, a woman with a clipboard and a voice too soft for the job. “We’re with Estill PD. We need to talk to you about your father.”
“She knows,” I cut in, voice flat, stepping between them and her. “You’re late.”
The woman frowned, glanced at her partner—a stocky guy with a buzz cut—then back at me. “We need her to come to Estill. Identify the body.”
“Now?” I said, sharper than I meant. “You think this is the best fucking time for that?”
Hallie Mae stood, surprising me, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. “No. I want to go. Now.”
I turned, caught her eyes—red-rimmed but hard, like she’d latched onto something to hold her up.
The cops shifted, ready to move, and the woman said, “We can drive you?—”
“No,” Hallie Mae interrupted, firm. “Noah’s taking me. If he doesn’t mind.”
“Course I don’t,” I said, already grabbing my keys.
Didn’t give a shit what the cops thought.
She needed me, and I’d be there, end of story.
We headed out, her steps slow but sure, me keeping close as we hit the truck.
The cops trailed in their cruiser, lights off, a quiet escort through the gray morning.
She climbed in, buckled up, and stared out the windshield, hands knotted in her lap, face blank like she’d gone somewhere I couldn’t reach.
I drove, the engine rumbling low, the road stretching out ahead—empty, wet, lined with pines that leaned heavy under the drizzle starting to fall.
Tried to think of something to say, anything that’d cut through the silence, but it all sounded stupid in my head—trite bullshit like “it’ll be okay” or “he’s in a better place.”
She didn’t need that. Didn’t want it.
I kept my mouth shut, hands tight on the wheel, glancing at her every few miles.
Her profile was sharp against the window—pale, still, like a statue carved from grief.
The miles rolled by, and I kept waiting for her to break again, to cry, to scream, but she just sat there, locked in her own head.
Then, out of nowhere, she spoke, voice low, tranced. “Do you think I’m cursed?”
It shocked me—hit like a slap, and I jerked my head to look at her.
“What?” I said, sharper than I meant.
“There’s no way,” I added quickly, softer now, trying to keep the edge out. “You’re one of the good ones. People don’t get cursed.”
She didn’t look at me, just kept staring out, eyes glassy. “Trouble comes in threes.”
I opened my mouth to argue—tell her that’s bullshit, just old wives’ tales—but the words died fast.
I’d lived enough to know trouble could come in threes, fours, fucking dozens if it wanted.
Didn’t matter what I believed; she felt it, and that was real enough.
“Not this time,” I said instead, voice firm. “I’ll be right here.”
She didn’t answer—just nodded, faint, like she’d heard me but wasn’t sure it changed anything.
The rest of the drive stretched quiet, the hum of the engine and the soft patter of rain the only sounds.
Estill came up slow—a small town, all brick storefronts and faded signs, the kind of place that clung to the past like it could keep the world out.
The cops led us to the station, a squat building with too-bright lights cutting through the gray.
I parked, killed the engine, and turned to her.
“You sure about this?” I asked, low, not wanting to push but needing to know.
She nodded, hands unbuckling slow, deliberate. “I have to see him.”
I didn’t argue—couldn’t.
Got out, circled to her side, and opened the door, offering a hand she took without looking.
Her fingers were cold, trembling, but her grip was firm, like she was holding on to me to stay upright.
The cops met us at the entrance, led us inside—fluorescents buzzing, the smell of stale coffee and antiseptic sharp in the air.
They took us down a hall, past desks and murmurs, to a door marked “Morgue.”
My gut twisted—not for me, for her—but I kept my face blank, my hand steady on her back.
She stopped at the threshold, breath hitching, and I leaned in close, voice low. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I know,” she whispered, barely audible, and stepped inside.
I followed, ready to catch her if she fell, ready to hunt whoever’d done this the second she didn’t need me standing there.
Because that’s what I did—protected, hunted, killed.
And for her, I’d do it all, no matter the cost.