Chapter 10
POV: Colt
The dust from the Blackthorn sedan had not even settled before I started giving orders.
“South pasture crew—move to the tree line above the old church road. Take the long guns. East fence team, I want every camera we still have live and feeding to the bunkhouse. Jax, pull the men off the burn site. We’re done playing defense.”
Twelve faces looked back at me from the main yard. Some had ridden for my father. Some had only ever known the quieter years. All of them understood the shift in my voice. This was no longer about holding the ranch. This was about taking something back.
Jax caught my arm as the others dispersed. His grip was hard. “You’re talking about walking into a Blackthorn wedding with half the county’s worst people under one roof. That’s not a rescue. That’s a suicide run.”
I looked at my brother’s hand until he released me. The cut on my forearm still throbbed under the bandage. The place on my mouth where Ember had kissed me like she was already saying goodbye still burned.
“Every Voss has a line,” I said. Quiet. Final. “They crossed it the day they put that ring on her finger.”
Jax stared at me for a long second. Whatever he saw there made him nod once and turn away. He started barking his own orders. The yard moved faster.
I went to the gun room.
The old revolver sat in its usual place—my father’s, the same one he had carried the night he taught me what blood for blood really meant.
I cleaned it with methodical focus while the rest of the house turned into a war room around me.
Maps of the Blackthorn property spread across the kitchen table.
Radio channels assigned. Exit routes marked in red.
Two of the older hands argued over the best approach from the ridge; I let them.
My mind was already three steps ahead, calculating angles the way I calculated a bronc’s next move.
Internal agony lived under every practical decision.
Ember in the Blackthorn car. Ember walking toward Rhett in a white dress that would feel like a shroud.
Ember’s voice in the kitchen—One breath.
That’s all you’ll need. I had tasted the desperation in that kiss.
I had felt the steel under it. She believed the wedding was the only way to drag the puppet master into the light.
I believed the only thing that mattered was getting her out alive.
Both things could be true. Only one of them would keep me from becoming the pure monster I had spent seven years holding at bay with unanswered texts.
By noon the plan was locked.
Six men on the ridge with clear sight lines to the main barn the Blackthorns used for large gatherings.
Four more in vehicles staged along the service road.
Jax and two others with me on the primary approach.
Radios checked. Extra magazines distributed.
The federal warrant still hung over the ranch like a second storm, but the agents had not returned.
Someone higher had pulled their leash for the day.
That someone wanted the wedding to happen.
That someone was about to learn what happened when a Voss stopped waiting.
I stood alone in the gun room and loaded the revolver one cartridge at a time.
The metal clicked into place with clean finality.
My hands were steady. The rest of me was not.
Every empty second stretched around the memory of Ember’s bare feet on the porch boards, the way her wrists had looked without the ring, the broken sound in my own voice when I pinned her to the wall.
I just got you back. She had kissed me like she was already gone.
The phone in my back pocket vibrated once.
Unknown number.
I thumbed it open. No text. No image. Just an incoming voice note that started playing the second the screen lit.
Breathing.
Soft. Controlled. Close to the microphone. Then, underneath it, the unmistakable metallic slide and click of a round being chambered in a pistol.
The note ended.
I stared at the screen until the backlight dimmed.
One breath. That was all she had promised.
She had given me more. The gun cock told me the stage was already set and the players were moving into position.
It told me she was still alive, still armed, still executing the plan that might get her killed before I could reach her.
Lethal focus settled over the agony like a lid on a boiling pot. I holstered my father’s revolver, checked the spare magazines one last time, and stepped out into the yard. The men were ready. The vehicles were running. Jax met my eyes across the hood of the lead truck and gave a single nod.
I climbed into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and wrapped my hands around the wheel.
“I’m coming, Fire,” I whispered to the empty cab.
Then I put the truck in gear and drove toward the only aisle that had ever mattered