Willa didn't sleep.
Even after Cade disappeared back into the night like the ghost he'd been hired to become, his presence lingered like smoke in her lungs—hot, thick, and impossible to breathe around.
She sat at the tiny inn desk, her jacket thrown over the chair, shirt sticking to her skin. The room was basic: old pine paneling, a humming mini fridge, one bed with scratchy sheets she hadn't touched.
She'd spent hours turning over the words Cade had said. You ever wonder if you're hunting the wrong monster? The worst part? She had. Too many times. And every time she ignored that gut pull, she ended up with blood on her hands.
And now the council—her so-called employer—was being cagey as hell. No reason for the bounty. No clear threat. Just "Bring him in. No questions."
Which always meant there were questions. And no one wanted her asking them.
The hum of electricity faltered. Lights flickered once. Then again.
Willa's head snapped up. She reached for the blade under the desk just as a low static buzz filled the room.
Magic.
Old magic.
The air felt too still, charged like a storm had rolled in without warning.
Then her phone buzzed on the bed.
Blocked number.
You're not supposed to talk to him.
Her heart dropped.
She didn't respond.
Do not engage further. Complete the contract.
"Bite me," she muttered, throwing the phone onto the bed.
Another buzz. Then another.
He is not what he seems. You'll be compromised.
Willa's lip curled. "You mean you're compromised."
She stood quickly, grabbing her knives, harness, a change of clothes. Whatever this was, it was bigger than a bounty. And she'd never been a fan of being used.
Ten minutes later, she slammed the motel room door behind her, every nerve on edge.
The moon hung low over Black Hollow, casting silver streaks through the pine trees and dusting the fog with light. She moved fast, boots silent on the gravel as she headed toward the one place she didn't want to go.
Back to him.
Cade's cabin sat at the edge of the forest, just past a row of rusted hunting signs and a half-buried trap Willa nearly stepped in. The man knew how to lay warnings.
She didn't knock.
She kicked the door open, blade drawn.
"You get off on being cryptic?" she snapped. "Because I'm about two minutes from putting a knife through your cryptic face."
Cade looked up from the kitchen table like he'd been expecting her. "Took you long enough."
"You knew they'd contact me."
"I knew they'd panic."
She stormed inside, slamming the door behind her. "Why the hell do they want you so bad, Mercer? What are you hiding?"
He stood. Moved slow, cautious. The air between them sparked again.
"I'm hiding the truth," he said. "That your employers are more dangerous than anything they've sent you to hunt."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get until you stop treating this like a job and start treating it like survival."
Willa didn't back down. She stepped into him, chest to chest, blade still clenched in her hand. "I don't do vague. I don't do submissive. And I sure as hell don't do this alpha posturing crap. So tell me something real, or I walk."
Cade stared at her, and for the first time, his expression shifted—just a flicker of something raw, haunted.
"I think they sent you here to die," he said quietly.
And just like that, everything shifted.
Willa stared at him.
The words echoed in her mind like a cracked bell:
They sent you here to die.
She didn't flinch. Not physically. But inside? Her stomach turned over like something feral had clawed through her gut.
"What did you just say?"
Cade didn't back down. He took a slow breath, stepped around her, and walked toward the table where a folded file sat. The wood groaned under his weight as he dropped into the chair.
"They've been cleaning house," he said. "Killing off anyone with the potential to challenge them. Bloodlines. Old gifts. Unregistered power. Doesn't matter if you're a threat or not—just matters if you could be."
Willa didn't move. "You're guessing."
"I'm surviving," Cade replied. "And I've survived by paying attention."
He slid the file across the table.
Willa hesitated, then stepped forward and opened it.
What she saw nearly stopped her breath.
Photos. Not of Cade—but of her. Surveillance-style shots: her on missions, meeting contacts, bleeding out in a warehouse after the job in Denver went sideways. Notes scrawled in shorthand. Dossier pages. Bloodwork.
Her hands clenched.
"This is fake," she said, voice low.
"It's not."
"They wouldn't track me like this."
"Why not?" Cade's voice was calm, steady. "You're strong. Smart. Unmatched in the field. And born with something they can't replicate."
Willa didn't answer. Couldn't.
She'd always known the council was secretive. Controlling. But this?
This was calculated. Cold.
Predatory.
"I'm not the enemy here," Cade said. "I never was. They've made me the face of whatever rebellion they're scared of. You just walked into their little game. And they're hoping you won't walk out."
She stared down at the photos again. Her throat tightened.
"This is a hell of a way to earn trust," she muttered.
"I'm not asking for your trust." Cade's voice was closer now. She looked up—and he was right in front of her. Close enough to feel the heat again. Close enough to see the softness behind the feral burn in his eyes.
"I'm asking you not to die."
That broke something in her. Just a crack.
But it was enough.
She looked at him, at the stupid, too-handsome face she wanted to punch and kiss in equal measure.
Then she shoved the file aside and muttered, "You have anything stronger than coffee in this place?"
Cade smirked. "You asking to stay awhile, Bloodhound?"
"I'm asking for whiskey. Don't make it weird."
His grin widened. "Too late."
Cade poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a chipped mug and slid it across the table.
Willa took it without thanks, downed it like water, and let the burn center her.
His cabin was clean in that rugged, survivalist way—functional but lived-in. Weapons on the walls, books stacked in messy towers, and a few faded photos tacked near the hearth. One showed Cade with a younger man—same eyes, same jaw. The other was old and worn, edges curled like someone had thumbed it too often.
Willa nodded toward it. "Family?"
Cade glanced over. "Was."
She didn't press.
Didn't want him pressing either.
They stood in silence, the heat between them building again, steady and unrelenting like southern humidity. She hated how aware she was of him—of his scent, his stance, the way his eyes tracked every flick of her wrist like she might strike or kiss him.
And hell, even she didn't know which it would be.
"I still don't trust you," she said, staring into her glass.
"I'd be worried if you did."
"You should be worried anyway."
He leaned in, slow, palms flat on the table, gaze burning into her like he could see past all the armor. "I'm not afraid of you, Willa."
That name on his lips—it did something. Twisted something.
She hated that.
And she hated how close he was again. How her body didn't know the difference between danger and desire.
His hand came to rest beside hers—so close their fingers almost touched.
"Careful," she said, voice low. "You're starting to make me think you like me."
"I don't," he murmured. "I want to bite you."
She choked on her breath. "That's not helping."
"No," Cade said, voice darker now, more dangerous. "But it's honest."
He took one more step around the table.
And she let him.
For one heartbeat, they were chest to chest again, the tension no longer cold and professional, but burning and barely restrained.
She grabbed the front of his shirt. Not pulling him in—holding him back.
"Don't mistake lust for leverage, Mercer."
His eyes dropped to her mouth. "What if I already did?"
Then—
A crash.
The window over the sink exploded inward, glass spraying like shrapnel. Willa hit the floor in a flash, blade drawn, Cade already moving behind her.
Three figures emerged from the trees—shadows in motion, slipping through fog.
"They found us," he growled.
"Who?" Willa snapped, crouched low behind the overturned table.
He met her eyes, jaw tight. "The ones they send to finish what you won't."