Chapter Seven
Outside, the blizzard kept its grip on Christmas Eve, the lights of Shadowfell flickering against the storm.
Inside the main house, Stone turned from the alarm controls, grateful for the sudden quiet. He’d wait to reset the flashing red lights until the perimeter was secure.
Dave stood in the doorway to the security room—walls lined with monitors casting faint light across his face.
Tall and broad-shouldered, built on an ex-military frame, he looked every inch the commander Stone had followed for years—and the man he’d never stopped loving.
Salt-and-pepper hair, cut short but not severe; a strong jaw shadowed with stubble.
Those steel-gray eyes could command a room, but right now, they softened on him.
“Two cameras along the north fence are out—could be the storm. This one was forced sideways from the wind,” Storm said, pointing to one of the monitors. “But you can see there’s something against the fence.”
Dave frowned at the screen. From this angle, only the edge showed, but something was moving out there—slow, maybe even deliberate. Whether it was man or beast remained to be seen.
“What’s the plan?” Stone asked, pulling his Ruger SR1911 and checking the clip out of habit.
Anything to keep his hands busy—anything to stop himself from reaching for Dave instead. What they had was still new, raw in all the best ways, and it took everything he had not to touch him when they were this close.
Dave stepped closer, his hand finding Stone’s arm. “Come on. We’re meeting down the hall.” The touch was brief but steady—just enough to keep him moving when part of him wanted to stay.
One of the ranch hands came running to meet them.
“Tell Cookie and Doc to get ready. Hot food and plenty of drinks, and have Doc on standby.”
Both men had flown in to enjoy the holiday with them. It looked like they might not get the chance to enjoy it.
Stone fell in beside him as they headed down the hallway toward the weapons room. Security, armory, and conference all sat in this wing—a layout born of instinct and necessity, all secured behind a biometric door.
Inside the weapons room, they found Real, Crow, and Rebel already gearing up.
“Rip, Black, and Law are heading up from the bunkhouse. They’ll meet us out back with the snowmobiles,” Real said, voice steady over the soft clatter of gear.
“Where’s Azrael?” Stone asked, scanning the room.
“He went down to the barn to get the YA group,” Real replied, tossing a coil of thick rope onto the table. The metal hooks clattered against the wood, sharp in the quiet.
This could get ugly fast. Whiteout conditions, limited visibility.
As far as Stone was concerned, extra precautions weren’t caution—they were survival. The rope would keep them tethered if the snow closed in and the world went white.
“You—” Stone started, then stopped, because what he really wanted was for Dave to stay inside—warm, safe, out of the storm.
Dave snorted, eyes narrowing. “No, I’m not staying behind.”
“Understood,” Stone grumbled. He didn’t like it, but arguing wouldn’t change a damn thing.
“Winter saw the alert on his phone,” Crow said into the silence that followed. “He and Black are almost done double-checking the generators. He said to call if you want them to meet us at the fence line.”
“Tell them to make sure everything stays secure at the house,” Dave said, sliding his Sig Sauer P226 under his heavy wool coat. “We’ll handle the fence.”
“We better take a dart gun in case it’s something big…like that buck Gage told us about,” Real said, opening one of the cages and pulling out a tranq rifle along with a box of ammo.
They all headed for the massive mudroom just off the back hall—the one that led toward the barn. Boots, coats, and cold air waited there.
Stone was halfway to the door when Dave’s hand closed around his arm. The touch was firm, not demanding—just enough to stop him. Stone turned, met his eyes.
“You worry too damn much,” Dave said quietly, a faint curve tugging at his mouth. “But if it helps, I’ll stay where you can see me.”
Stone’s lips quirked, voice low. “Good. You’re my favorite view anyway.”