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When Deacon entered the library, it was warm, a small fire crackling in the grate to push away the afternoon chill—a haven of peace in the frustration that had filled the day. Dain sat, his big frame sprawled on the couch closest to the fireplace, a phone to his ear.
“No, you’re not going by the office. They don’t need you that bad. You’re going straight home.” A pause, then Dain growled low in his throat, obviously not pleased with whatever response he was getting. “Carla can damn well wait!”
Deacon turned to the chair across from Dain, taking his time settling in, hiding the smirk he knew would piss the man off. Some things about marriage you never forgot, and one of those was exactly how well barking orders at your wife worked. He wasn’t surprised when the sound of an equally loud yet feminine tone came through the phone. The working of Dain’s jaw proved Livie wasn’t the lie-down-and-obey type.
“No. You are going home and taking care of our baby—and no conference calls either, you hear me? Rest. That’s it.”
After a pause, Dain leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed at his forehead. “Livie, wife...” He heaved a heavy sigh. “Please go home. I know everything’s behind with so many people out sick, but work will still be there tomorrow. Take my wife and baby home.”
Man, he’s good.
“I’ll have Lori drop by tonight with some of that chicken soup from that hole-in-the-wall you like. Yes, there. Now get some rest. Okay. Love you too.” Dain clicked the call off and zeroed in on Deacon’s smirk. “What the hell are you grinning at?”
“Your masterful play.”
Dain had the grace to look chagrined. “Hey, when your wife is sick, you do whatever it takes to get her well, even if you can’t be with her.”
Yes, you did. Deacon knew that all too well. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“The flu, but she’s pregnant, and...”
And Dain had almost lost her recently. Deacon remembered that from a conversation with King their first day here. No wonder the man was beating his chest like King Kong. Me, boss. You, go home. Deacon certainly remembered that feeling. “How far along is she?”
Chagrin turned to masculine pride. “Five and a half months.”
“Know what the baby is yet?”
“No, damn it. Livie says she needs something in her pocket to control me for the next few months.”
“She’s probably right. Men like us can drive a woman crazy when she’s pregnant.” Jules had complained loud and long about his overprotective bullshit—not that she called it that. He couldn’t help grinning about it now.
“Damn straight,” Dain agreed. “Not that it’s gonna change. We’ve been married almost eleven years—you’d think she’d be used to it by now.”
They shared a look full of mutual understanding. Deacon and Julia had dated in high school, married straight after, and stayed together till her death. Their marriage had lasted almost a decade and a half. Their eighteen-year-old mindsets had grown, matured, but some things didn’t change. The protective nature of an alpha male was definitely one of them.
When Jules had died...fuck, the pain. Knowing he couldn’t protect her, could do nothing but hold her as the cancer slowly stripped her away from him. He’d spent days, weeks shaking with the need to fight an enemy that couldn’t be touched. And then, so fast, she was gone. Her father, a general who’d rarely been home, had arrived drunk and ranted over her casket about Deacon’s inability to keep his daughter safe. For a while Deacon had thought the old man might be right.
That only made him more determined to protect Sydney from any and all threats—including this latest one. But to protect her, he had to discuss it, and he and Dain both were in avoidance mode. Probably because they both felt helpless.
“Any developments from the intel?”
Dain turned serious immediately. “No. The trigger of the alarm seems random, no patterns, accompanied by nothing on camera, no indication of what set the system off, nothing on diagnostics. Nothing on radar. Just...nothing.”
“How do we know it’s not a malfunction?”
“I can’t assure you of that. We simply have to wait and see if it happens again. All we do know is that all readings are normal.”
That was impossible.
“What about hacking?”
Dain’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “My thought as well, but your friend over at GFS assures me the software is intact, no sign of intrusion.”
And Sheppard knew her stuff. So no cyberattacks, and seemingly no physical attacks. They were missing something big-time.
“So let’s go with the worst-case scenario and say this was an attempt to penetrate, even if we can’t explain how he or she did it. Who’s behind this?” They both knew it wasn’t Mansa—the man wanted Deacon’s head on a spit, but he wouldn’t dirty his hands with anything but the final kill. Deacon wasn’t aware of anyone locally who could do the job this seamlessly.
“Whoever this was didn’t just get inside our guard,” Dain said, pushing rough fingers through the strip of dark hair over his head. “He bypassed cameras, security, even Fionn’s and Elliot’s presence along the perimeter. And yet he didn’t come inside.”
“Taunting us.” Psychological warfare—with his daughter as the target. The knowledge that next time might not be a mere taunt wound him up in knots. “Someone connected to Mansa. The question is, how?”
“Could be as simple as an anonymous bank account, but I don’t think so.” Dain reached to a side table to pick up a file folder. He flipped it open to scan a page. “I shared this with the others just a little bit ago. Mansa’s secretive to the extreme about his inner circle. We do know he keeps a team of bodyguards, but they’re rotated regularly, probably to avoid any one of them being susceptible to bribes.” He handed Deacon the open file. “But since his son’s death, there’s been some chatter about Mansa acquiring a new right-hand man.”
Deacon narrowed his eyes before glancing down at the report.
“He’s known only as Kivuli.” Dain jerked his chin at the file Deacon held. “The name means ‘shadow’ or ‘ghost.’ Not much is known about him, but we managed to track down a little information. People say he’s able to get in and out of anywhere without being tracked, without showing up on surveillance. And once he’s in...” Dain cleared his throat. “He’s meticulous, efficient, and when Mansa requires it, deadly. Mansa’s own personal assassin.”
Deacon went back to the beginning of the report and started reading in earnest. The details made his gut churn. This man might be coming after his four-year-old daughter? God. “Dain...”
The team lead’s voice dropped a notch, going quiet. “The thing to remember, Deacon, is that Mansa is on a personal mission. He wants his hands on you, not Kivuli’s. He’ll be sending his assassin after us, not you.”
“That’s not exactly good news.” Despite the fact that Sydney was priority, he didn’t want to lose any members of Dain’s team. The decimation of his own had been almost more than he could handle.
The knowledge that Elliot would be in that line of fire? He had a hard time breathing as the weight of it settled on his chest.
“So we can’t see him, can’t track him, can’t stop him—presumably.” He glared at Dain, knowing it wasn’t the man’s fault but unable to stop. “What do we do?”
Dain remained calm despite the edge in Deacon’s voice. “Nothing right now. Until Sheppard can give us more or we find something on our own, we check every alarm that sounds, we stay ready, and we stick to the plan.”
“Will security be weakened by constant triggers?” Because if there was one, he had no doubt there would be more.
“No, thankfully. And no doubt Kivuli knows it. The goal of a series of alarms would be to wear down our ability to stay alert, push us off guard. He won’t succeed.”
Deacon handed the file back with a heavy sigh. “Global First hasn’t heard anything about this man or I’d know. So how did you discover him?”
When Dain stood and walked toward the table to put the report down, Deacon knew he wasn’t going to like the man’s answer.
“Elliot knew.”
Not what he’d expected. “How?”
Dain leaned back against the table, arms crossed over his chest, his stare boring into Deacon for so long he wondered if the man was planning on lying. “What she told you in the office is true: she had a case involving him. I don’t know too many details, but I do know it was early in her...career. The death of a couple in the Midwest. Car bomb.” Dain’s words were heavy, revealing how much the case had impacted Elliot—and Dain. Deacon tried to ignore the niggle of jealousy that rose at the thought. “The bombing was tracked back to Mansa, though they were never able to get enough conclusive proof for a formal indictment or request for extradition. But Elliot... That case was hard on her. She hasn’t forgotten them, or him.” He shrugged, the action stiff. “She’s tracked Mansa ever since.”
So she wasn’t just familiar with Mansa; he was her obsession. That explained so many things. He’d thought her drive was normal, was how she operated, always pushing to the front, always needing to be in charge, not submitting to anyone but Dain. Not on this case, apparently.
Deacon ran a rough hand through his hair. “Why didn’t she just tell me this upfront, when I asked?”
“Elliot is...complicated.”
Deacon snorted. That was the biggest fucking understatement ever.
Dain grinned, his tense posture finally relaxing as he moved back to the couch. “Look, Deacon...” A heavy sigh left him as he sat. “Elliot has a lot of things she doesn’t talk about, but it’s not because she’s subverting you. It’s just...her life hasn’t been easy. Anything personal that she shares with you is up to her, not me, but if it has to do with your daughter, with this case? If I feel like she knows something we need to know? I’ll make her tell you.”
Deacon rolled the man’s words around in his brain, looking for loopholes, looking for double meanings that could lead him to the truth. More and more, though, he wanted the trail to Elliot’s bed more than he wanted the trail to anything else. Her secrets were just a part of that.
The library door opened and Elliot walked through.
“Speak of the devil.”
Elliot glanced behind her. “Me?”
Dain stood, grinning. “You.” He walked toward the door, pausing next to Elliot. “Everything quiet?”
Elliot’s gaze shifted between Dain and Deacon warily. “Yes.”
“Good.” With a pat on Elliot’s back that was hard enough to bump her forward, he continued toward the door. “I’ll go check the kitchen for a dinner menu.”
The silence after Dain deliberately shut the door behind him felt thick and uncomfortable. Elliot didn’t continue into the room, and Deacon didn’t know what to say. But then Elliot crossed her arms over her ribs, plumping the soft mounds of her breasts up to the low vee of the paper-thin white T-shirt she wore, and his brain said fuck it and pushed him to his feet.
“Where’s Sydney?” he asked, stalking toward her. The glide of her tongue along her full bottom lip caused his blood to pool in his groin.
“She’s having a short nap; all the excitement, I think. King is outside her bedroom door.”
“Good.”
Elliot took a step back.
Never give ground to a predator.
She seemed to realize her mistake, jerking herself to a stop despite his advance. “Good?”
“Yes, good. We have loose ends from this morning that need to be tied up.”
She waved toward the closed door. “I thought that’s what you and Dain were doing.”
“Not loose ends with Dain. Loose ends with you.”
“Oh.”
The crease between her brows said she didn’t understand why he’d want to tie up anything with her, which was almost cute, if Elliot could be called cute. But the word didn’t really fit. Warrior. Powerful. Strong. Those fit. The idea of having all that strength under him, around him...
Fuck.
“I never did get an answer this morning,” he reminded her.
Her grip on her ribs tightened. As he stopped, so close that breathing might actually bring their skin together, Deacon couldn’t help but look. The height difference gave him even more than a glimpse of her creamy skin, and damn. Elliot had a knockout pair of breasts. Were her nipples dark or rosy? From her coloring, he was betting on pink—and not just on her nipples.
“Deacon...”
He met her eyes. “What?”
“You can’t... This isn’t...” She shrugged, frowned. “I guess I thought you weren’t really...serious. About—”
“Why would I not be serious?”
She shrugged again. But she didn’t back away.
“Elliot.” Taking a chance, he tipped her chin up with a finger, both so he could look into her eyes and because he simply had to touch her or die trying. “Why would you think I wasn’t serious? You’re a beautiful, strong woman. This can’t be the first time someone has been interested in you on an op.” Not that he wanted to be lumped in with every other man she’d been attracted to, but still...
“No.” The word was breathless. His finger and thumb clenched on her chin.
But the uncertainty was still there. It looked foreign on this woman’s face.
Something definitely wasn’t adding up here.
He stilled, watching her, calculating the input, drawing conclusions. What his brain came up with surprised him: she might’ve been propositioned before, but she definitely wasn’t used to being interested.
His chest puffed up, like he was some stupid buck preening at winning the healthiest doe. Now he just had to gentle her.
“I am definitely serious. I’m also not pressuring you.” Much. “No is no, okay?” She couldn’t very well bow out of staying here if she was uncomfortable, and he wouldn’t make her feel she had to. “I’m interested, yes. If it’s not mutual, just say so. I’ll back off. But I don’t want to—and I don’t think you want me to either, do you?”
Her lips pursed like she wanted to answer, but nothing came out. But her face softened, her body relaxed. When he stroked his fingers along her jaw to cup her head, her tongue sneaked out again to wet her full bottom lip.
Every drop of spit in his mouth went dry. “Can I kiss you?”
Funny, he was the toughest ass out there when it came to work, but women? Even the toughest ass hated rejection. And he’d never wanted to hear a yes so bad in his life.
“Yes.”
A long breath escaped him—relief. He leaned down nice and slow.
Elliot’s hand settled on his chest. His heart slammed against it.
“Wait,” she whispered.
Her fingers clenched in his T-shirt. When his breath hit her mouth, she parted her lips.
Deacon didn’t close his eyes; he wanted to see, wanted to feel. He didn’t want to miss a thing, especially not the flutter of Elliot’s eyelashes on her cheeks, the flush of pink in her skin, the soft glide of her lips across his as he brushed lightly, back and forth, back and forth, along them. And then he couldn’t wait any longer.
His tongue breached her mouth. The taste of mint and something distinctly Elliot, something that made him growl with delight, met him. He couldn’t help the way his fingers tightened on her nape, forcing her closer, harder, forcing his tongue deeper.
Elliot moaned around him, her own fingers tightening to draw him against her.
The sound of male laughter drifted in from the hall, registering a vague warning in his roaring ears.
Dain didn’t lock that door, damn it.
He didn’t want to move, but he forced his head back anyway. There was no resisting the awed look in her eyes when they opened, though.
Another small kiss, two.
Footsteps in the hall, drawing closer.
He took a step back. His hand tensed in her hair before dropping to his side.
Elliot was still breathing heavy when Saint opened the door. “Ready to eat?”
You have no idea. “Sure,” Deacon answered for them.
“Good, you can help cook.” Saint threw him an unapologetic grin, but his gaze was far more serious as it brushed Elliot’s back.
She felt it; he knew by the way her shoulders stiffened, her chin lifting just a notch. And then she was turning toward her teammate. “KP duty it is.”
She didn’t look back. Deacon closed his fist around the feel of her fragile neck in his palm and followed her out the door.