Chapter 6 Cade
CADE
Flashes of bodies and blood. The sharp sound of screaming tears me from sleep—but it’s not a dream, it’s a memory.
The first sacrifice I witnessed.
Shoving it away, I wake. Sort of. Eyes wide open, but my body won’t move. I’m stuck staring at the ceiling, limbs heavy, chest tight.
Panic stirs low in my gut as I adjust to my surroundings. The room is dark but not empty. I notice something in the air, like smoke. It moves with intent, graceful and fluid as it hovers.
I try to move, but my muscles won’t respond.
Why the fuck can’t I move?
Just then, the haze shifts, the shape warping until it almost looks like… hands. I try to shut my eyes, but I can’t even do that. Then, I feel pressure, cool and weightless. As I focus on the touch, it’s featherlight, but I feel it.
A hand rests on my chest. It eases my breath.
The panic doesn’t vanish, but it dulls. The form shifts again, circling around to my side.
One hand stays pressed over my heart, grounding me, while the other traces down my body—slow and careful.
My mind races to catch up with my body. I want to ask what this is.
I want to scream, but I can’t. And then: a kiss.
Soft. Just at the crook of my neck. A chill races down my spine, but not from fear. From something else.
Something worse.
I feel safe, and my eyes are able to close, finally. Just for a second. What is this? Comfort? I want to lean in, but I still can’t move, can’t speak. I can’t do anything but exist in the blissful, terrifying silence. It’s just a dream. It has to be. Not real. I struggle to vocalize my thoughts.
“You’re not real, ghost.”
Just a trick of my fucked-up brain. The thought hits hard and bitter. Immediately, the pressure lifts. A withdrawal. Like I hurt it.
No.
No, don’t go. But no sound escapes. No plea reaches it. My body jerks and I bolt upright, sweat-soaked and breathless once again.
“No!”
I don’t know why I said it. Instinct, maybe. My hand flies to my neck, fingers grazing the exact spot I felt those lips. The skin is cool. Sensitive. Too real. I scratch at it, hard, trying to replace sensation with pain. I look over to my bedside table. The clock reads 3:33.
Again.
This is fucking annoying.
Lying back down, I stare at the back of my eyelids for too long, tossing and turning every so often, but sleep never finds me.
Eventually, I check the clock again—5:15.
Dammit. I throw the covers back, swinging my legs out of bed and grabbing my jeans from the chair near the window.
As I pull them on, I feel it again. That stare.
Eyes. On me. Always.
I grab my shirt. They must like what they see. I’m an attractive guy, what can I say? A dry laugh slips out—but it fades just as fast. Because I’d be crazy to derive pleasure from the look of something unseen. Right?
I yank the shirt over my head and sit on the edge of the bed, hand covering my mouth.
This isn’t normal. This isn’t right. There’s no possible fucking way any of this is real.
I’m paranoid. Stressed. Spiraling. It makes sense.
It has to make sense. I push the thought down, burying it under the usual weight of logic. Only the logical is trustworthy.
Coffee. I need coffee.
The comforting smell of fresh coffee grounds fills my nose. Bitter and earthy. Calli always makes it strong. I make my way to the kitchen and pour myself a mug, leaning against the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I can feel myself slipping. The line between what’s real and what’s not blurs more every day. The anxiety, tight chest, blurred vision, my hands that won’t fucking steady.
I grip my mug tighter. Maybe it’s hallucinations, or panic attacks.
It doesn’t matter—I have to push forward.
But this presence, this thing in the dark that won’t leave me alone.
Even now, I feel it. Despite my logic, I don’t want to break it apart like I do with everything else. It makes me feel safe.
I don’t know what that says about me. I constantly remind myself to focus.
To be better, stronger, less distracted.
But this ghost is there every time I close my eyes.
Something that should be an unwelcome distraction, but if I’m honest?
I don’t want to lose it. I shudder at the thought, recalling the events of last night.
“Jesus, Cade—you look like shit.” My eyes shoot to Calli, who is already sitting at the table. Snapping out of my thoughts, I grunt and take a long sip of my coffee, ignoring her.
She stares and doesn’t drop it.
“What?” I finally snap, sharper than I intended.
Her eyebrows lift. “Nothing. You just look… off. Didn’t sleep?”
“Don’t start,” I growl.
And there’s that look she does. The one where her mouth wants to fight but her eyes know she’s already lost. She shrinks a little in her chair and I instantly feel like shit. Not because I yelled, but because she’s used to it.
She exhales, attempting to deflect my misdirected anger. “So… What’s going on with the mission or whatever?”
I sit across from her, mug between my hands. “Allen White’s gone dark.”
Her brows pull together. “What do you mean gone dark? Isn’t he the guy whose daughter—”
“Yeah. Olivia White. I was waiting for the news of her death to drop. Instead? They ran a story saying both she and Allen died in the crash. Same day.” Honestly not surprising. What were they going to say? Heiress stabbed in the neck during orgy? That’d be fucking hilarious.
Calli blinks, surprised. “What the hell?”
“Exactly. It’s bullshit. He faked his death. Slipped out under a new alias. Jack tracked him to L.A. and then—nothing. Radio silence.”
She frowns. “You think he’s with the Covenant?”
I nod. “Or he’s hiding with one of their upper-ring bastards. Either way, we’ll find him.”
There’s a pause. Then she leans forward slightly. “What about his wife?”
I raise a brow. “Rosa?”
“Yeah. Could she be a way in?”
I shake my head, dismissing the idea. “Nah. Rosa White’s all flash. Parties. Spending money. Showing off. She was never close with Allen in the cult’s inner circles.” I breathe the next words through my teeth. Pissed off, not at her, but that he’s slipping through the cracks. “Not that I ever saw.”
Calli tilts her head, unconvinced. “Still might be worth looking into.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The moment stretches, tense but quiet. Almost bearable.
Then Jack strolls in, humming some ungodly pop song, and goes straight for the coffeepot. Shirtless, barefoot, bedhead in full glory.
“You two look chipper this morning.”
Both of us groan.
Calli mutters, “It’s not even seven. Why are you like this?”
Jack shrugs, pouring his coffee. “Some of us are emotionally well-adjusted.”
I snort into my mug.
Calli shoots him a death glare. “Touché.”
He leans on the counter, sipping with a smug grin. “So, what did I miss?”
Calli doesn’t even look at me. She just says flatly, “We’re gonna look into Rosa White.”
Jack blinks. “Really? Her?”
I sigh, finishing the last of my coffee. “Apparently.”
But the words taste wrong in my mouth. Like I already regret underestimating her.
Jack and I take our coffees and make our way to his office, Calli trailing behind us. The second we cross the threshold, I shoot her a stern look that she knows means I’m in no mood for her shit.
“I won’t touch anything,” she says quickly, hands up. “I’ll stay quiet.”
I give a clipped nod, pointing. “You stay over there, no breathing down our necks while we work.”
“I get it. I’ll stay on the back wall.”
Giving her my back, Jack drops into his chair and starts tapping away at the keyboard. The wall of monitors lights up like a command center.
“All right, let’s see if our fashion-obsessed widow is up to anything interesting,” Jack mutters to himself.
The next few minutes are a blur of code, surveillance footage, and low-level cyberstalking.
“Her socials are still active, but the posts are off. Inconsistent time stamps. Locations that don’t match.
Either they’re scheduled or old shots. She’s not where she says she is.
” Jack’s fingers fly over the keyboard. “There! A wire transfer from one of her shell companies hit a burner account out of New Mexico yesterday. Weird timing.”
I step forward, staring at the screen. “What’s the account tagged to?”
“Anonymous, but the routing path links back to a private defense firm with known off-record affiliations. The kind of group that launders secrets and builds tech for people who don’t officially exist. That screams Order.”
“But it’s not Allen?”
Jack shakes his head. “Nope. Tracked the signal through three proxies. He’s not with them. He’s alone.”
A smile slowly spreads across my face. “Perfect.”
Jack frowns. “Still doesn’t tell us where—”
Calli speaks for the first time since entering the room. “He’s probably holed up somewhere eating cold Chef Boyardee out of a can like a scared little rat.”
Jack freezes. “Say that again.”
Calli blinks and repeats slowly. “Chef… Boyardee?”
Jack spins back to the keyboard. “No—the hiding. He’s not in a facility. He’s off the grid. He’s being cheap, scared. That narrows the radius. Think motels. Cash-only rentals. No cameras.”
He clicks a few more times, scanning databases.
“Boom! Got him. Last-known credit card swipe was at a gas station half a mile from a rundown motel in Nevada. He’s not laying low with the Covenant. He’s hiding in plain sight, and he’s panicked. Amateur.”
Jack turns the screen, revealing a grainy still from a motel parking lot.
“Nice work, Cal.”
I stand up slowly, gaze fixed on the screen.
Calli eyes me wearily. “What are you going to do?”
I smirk. “Get some answers. Through his teeth or his fingernails. Whichever gives first.”