Chapter 7
RAVEN
The cabin's porch wraps around three sides, and I discover this by accident when I can't sit still any longer.
I've been awake since before dawn, lying in that ridiculously comfortable bed with my mind running laps around the fact that my safety now depends on the Hollister brothers.
Sleep doesn't come easy when the list of people who want you dead keeps growing and the list of people you can trust fits on one hand with fingers left over.
The coffee is still warm when I pour a mug and push through the front door into early morning air that smells like cedar and dew-soaked earth.
The countryside rolls out in every direction in green hills dotted with scrub oak, and the sky above is that particular shade of pale blue that only exists in Texas before the heat sets in.
I walk the porch slowly with my mug in hand, cataloging the property the way I've been trained.
The cabin sits in a natural depression, invisible from above, surrounded by a perimeter of cedar and live oak that provides both cover and concealment.
The driveway is the only approach by vehicle, and it's narrow enough that a single shooter could hold it from the porch.
Jesse didn't just build a home out here.
He built a stronghold and disguised it as a home.
The south side of the porch overlooks a clearing that slopes down toward a dry creek bed.
A weathered workbench sits against the cabin wall, and Jesse is there, seated on a low stool with a rifle across his lap.
His back is to me, but his shoulders shift the moment my boots scuff the planks.
He knew I was coming before I rounded the corner.
I take a sip of coffee and lean against the porch railing to his left, angling myself where I can see his profile and his hands.
His fingers work a cleaning rod through the barrel with smooth, unhurried strokes, and the morning light catches the scars on his knuckles and the backs of his hands, pale white lines crisscrossing tanned skin.
His forearms are bare where the henley's sleeves are pushed up, and I can see the corded muscle beneath, the tendons shifting with each movement.
They are strong hands, competent and scarred and certain of their purpose.
"What is that? The Barrett?"
"No. That generally stays in the armory." Jesse pulls the cleaning rod free and sets it aside, then runs an oiled cloth along the receiver with deliberate care. "This is a Remington 700. Lighter and better for fieldwork when I don't need to punch through armor."
"Is that what you used at the Pritchard ranch?"
"Yeah." He reassembles the bolt with a series of precise clicks, his fingers finding each component without looking. The rifle comes together in his hands like it was built to live there.
I watch the motion, the sureness of it, and something tightens low in my belly that has nothing to do with fear. His hands are big and rough-knuckled, and they move with a control that suggests he does everything this way. Measured and thorough.
The thought of those hands on me sends heat crawling up my neck, and I take another sip of coffee to cover it.
"You're staring." Jesse's voice carries a trace of something that might be amusement.
"I'm assessing." The correction comes out sharper than I intend. "There's a difference."
"If you say so." He sets the rifle across the workbench and turns on the stool to face me. The morning light catches his jaw, the scar that runs along the bone and disappears beneath his collar. His eyes find mine and hold, and the weight of his attention settles over me like a physical touch.
The silence between us isn't hostile. It is careful, like two people standing at the edge of deep water trying to decide whether to wade in.
"Can I ask you something?" The words leave my mouth before I've fully decided to say them.
"You can ask." His tone implies he reserves the right not to answer.
"All those years in Shadowland." I grip the mug tighter. "Did you ever think about me?"
The question hangs in the morning air between us. Jesse's hands go still on his knees. The patience in his posture shifts into something rawer, something that looks like it costs him to hold steady.
"Every single day." Three words that carry no deflection, no qualifier, no attempt to soften the admission or dress it up as duty or obligation. Just the bare, rough truth delivered in a voice that has dropped half an octave.
My breath catches. The coffee mug is suddenly the only thing keeping my hands from shaking, and I grip it hard enough that the ceramic bites into my palms. I've spent a third of my life hating this man, building walls against every other thought and convincing myself that Jesse Hollister was nothing but a ghost from the worst night of my life.
And he just dismantled all of it with three words and a look that makes me feel like I'm standing beside an inferno fighting the urge to throw myself into the flames.
I don't trust my voice, so I don't speak.
Jesse holds my gaze for another long moment, then turns back to the workbench and picks up the rifle.
He runs the oiled cloth over the stock one final time.
The shift in his attention isn't cold. It's mercy, giving me space to recover, to reassemble the composure he just shattered without even raising his voice.
The distant sound of Jesse's phone ringing inside the cabin breaks the spell. He rises, sets the Remington in its case, and moves toward the door. His arm brushes mine as he passes, and the contact sends a current through my skin that I feel all the way to my spine.
I stay on the porch, breathing in fresh air and staring at the hills until my pulse returns to something resembling normal.
By the time I follow him inside, Jesse is standing at the kitchen island with his phone on speaker. Knox's voice fills the room, clipped and efficient.
"Security cameras at Devil's Acre show nothing. No cartel activity at the ranch and no unfamiliar vehicles on the access roads. Beckett ran thermal sweeps of the perimeter this morning before we headed out, and everything came up clean."
Jesse leans against the counter with his arms crossed. "They haven't connected my truck to the property."
"Not yet. The evacuation was precautionary, but it looks like we're clear for now." Knox pauses. "Beckett and I are heading back to the ranch. We'll keep routines normal and stay visible, but the cabin stays as the fallback position if things go sideways."
"Agreed. Keep me updated on any movement."
"Copy." Knox's voice shifts, and I can hear the change in register, the way the tactical briefing gives way to something more personal. "One more thing. Preacher King came by Devil's Acre this morning, before the sweeps."
Jesse's posture changes. The casual lean against the counter tightens into something rigid. "What did he want?"
"Same thing he always wants. Asking if we've heard anything." Knox's tone drops, and the rawness beneath it surprises me. "His daughter Delilah has been missing for a year now. He's desperate, Jesse. The man looks like he hasn't slept in months."
Jesse's gaze flicks to me, then away. "What did you tell him?"
"What I always tell him. That we'll keep our ears open." Knox's voice hardens. "That's all there is to tell."
The finality in those words could cut glass. Whatever nerve that name just hit, Knox has sealed it off completely.
"Understood." Jesse doesn't push. "Stay sharp. Both of you."
"Always." The line goes dead.
Jesse stares at the phone for a moment, then pockets it. His jaw is tight, and the scar along the bone stands out white against his skin.
I pour a second cup of coffee and settle at the kitchen island with the laptop Jesse gave me.
Uncle Robert's encrypted files arrived overnight through the cabin's satellite connection, just as he promised, and the decryption key unlocks a folder dense with intelligence reports, surveillance photos, and incident documentation that includes the notes and images I uploaded from the Pritchard ranch.
The sheer volume tells me Shadowland's team has been building this case for years.
Jesse moves around the kitchen, cleaning the coffeepot and checking his phone, giving me space to work while staying close enough to be present. His restlessness is controlled and channeled into small tasks, but I can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from sunbaked stone.
I'm halfway through the first file when his phone rings again. Jesse answers in the living room with his voice low, and he moves further from the kitchen.
But the cabin isn't large, and his voice carries whether he wants it to or not.
"I don't care what it costs." His response to whatever was asked is immediate and absolute, stripped of everything except certainty.
There is a pause. Then louder, harder.
"She stays, Knox. That's not negotiable. If Carmichael's game goes sideways, if the cartel finds the cabin, if Harlan kicks down the door with a warrant and a SWAT team, I don't care. She won't be alone out there with a target on her back. Not while I'm breathing."
Silence. A long one.
"I've been at war for her since the night I put her on that plane."
My hand is still on the laptop keyboard. Jesse Hollister just drew a line in the sand with his own brother, choosing my safety over his family's, over his freedom, over his life.
The weight of that hits me harder than I'm ready for, and I feel the walls inside me starting to crumble. Emotions rush at me so fast that I'm nearly overwhelmed.
With sheer willpower, I force my attention back to the screen. The files need to be examined and the intelligence added to what we already know, and right now focus is the only thing keeping me from walking into that living room and doing something reckless.