Chapter Nine
The illusion didn’t last.
“And if they come up against an army trying to get in? What then?” Sage asked through clenched teeth, curly blond hair falling into his green eyes. He shoved it back with an impatient hand.
“They won’t walk into something like that,” Azrael said with a faint smirk. “Don’t forget who we’re talking about—they’re former military assassins. The only reason we’re sitting this one out is because there’s a blizzard out there and thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds.”
“That’s rough on a two-hundred-seventy-pound man, let alone one of us who barely clears a buck twenty-five,” Rebel interjected.
“Speak for yourself,” Beck said, slapping a hand against his abs before jerking a thumb toward Syx. “Bet he’s pushing over two hundred with all that muscle.”
The others snickered.
“Besides, it isn’t an army out there,” Rebel said. “The camera feed from that section of fence showed something moving, but it’s probably an animal.”
“Like I said—if you want to go, there’s room for one,” Azrael replied, reaching into his heavy coat.
His fingers were finally starting to warm, skin prickling as the heat returned.
Melted snow dampened the dark strands of hair against his forehead, and his nose still stung from the cold.
He pulled out a two-way radio, the metal cool but no longer biting in his hand.
“Nah, I don’t want them worrying over me,” Syx finally said, the fight easing from his tone.
Azrael lifted the radio and keyed the mic. “We’re all good here. Everyone’s staying put. Call if you need us.”
Static crackled, then Real’s deep voice came through, steady and familiar. “Roger that. We’ll keep you posted.”
“You better,” Azrael said to his husband, voice low but firm. His throat tightened, emotion pressing close, but he kept it steady—for both their sakes.
“So… they’ll be okay, yeah?” Sage asked, tilting his blond head. “I mean, I don’t know if Law’s ever been in a blizzard.”
Aspen and Beck exchanged a quick look but said nothing.
Azrael just nodded, as if it were the most natural question in the world. “If Law couldn’t handle it, he’d say something,” he said evenly.
“What about Dave?” Boston asked, worry flickering across his young face. “He’s not that young anymore.”
“Dave has Stone. There ain’t nothing happening to him with Stone around,” Rebel said with a cackle.
Laughter rippled through the group, breaking the tension into something lighter, easier to breathe.
Then the door swung open, snow gusting in as several ranch hands and Crow stepped through, escorting Cookie and Doc inside.
They carried a massive crockpot, serving utensils, and bowls balanced in their arms. A rush of cold swept through the barn before the door shut again, sealing the storm back outside.
Cookie had no family to speak of and had arranged coverage at the Nevada ranch so he could spend the holiday here in Colorado.
It worked out—Shadowfell’s regular cook was on vacation, and Cookie had stepped right in without missing a beat.
Doc had opted to come along since his mother had passed last year.
Azrael was glad he had—he’d grown fond of both men, and the place felt warmer with them here.
Micah was already moving to help, long limbs fluid even in the chill, while Freedom darted in to grab a stack of bowls before anyone could stop him. “Slow down, kid,” Rebel laughed, already pushing to his feet. “You’re not storming a kitchen.”
“Could if I had to,” Freedom shot back, grinning.
Micah just shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he steadied the crockpot cord for Cookie.
Rebel crossed the few steps to Crow and was immediately caught up in his husband’s arms. Crow pulled him close with a low laugh, the sound warm against the storm still howling outside.
The sight hit Azrael harder than he expected. It made him think of Real—of the way those same arms could anchor him after a mission—and all he wanted now was to have his man home safe. Maybe this wasn’t home, not really. But for the holiday, it was close enough.
Cookie set the pot on a nearby table and plugged it in. The smell hit instantly—spices, sauce, and slow-cooked meat—rich and heavy in the warm air.
“Oh my god, Cookie. Is that your famous chili?” Boston asked, springing to his feet.
Ocean was right behind him, already on his feet at the sight—and smell—of food.
“Damn right it is,” Cookie said with a grin. “I don’t make chili—I make survival fuel.”
“Yeah, survival fuel that nearly burned my tongue off last time,” Boston said with a grin.
Cookie only smiled, looking far too pleased with himself—as if that were the highest praise a cook could get.
The storm battered the world beyond the walls, but in the barn, heat and laughter held their fragile ground.
Azrael let the sound of it sink in—the hum of life, the scent of spice and smoke. Still, a cold knot stayed buried in his gut.
Because out there, his husband was charging through hell—and storms had a way of turning on a man.