Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Meeting family.
Riley squeezes my fingers as we step into the hotel lobby, her shoulder brushing my arm like she belongs there. Like she belongs with me. I still get hit with that—how natural it feels. How dangerous it would’ve felt a month ago.
Now it’s just… mine.
Not ownership.
Home.
Mack is easy to spot across the lobby—because Mack Hawthorne has never met subtlety and isn’t planning to start today. He’s tall, broad, loud even when he isn’t speaking, leaning against a column like he’s posing for a recruitment poster. Dark hair, dark grin, that signature Hawthorne chaos in his hazel eyes.
He sees me and pushes off the column with a grin that’s already trouble.
“There he is,” he calls, stepping in like a storm with boots. “The family’s resident ice statue. Still alive, Crewe?”
“Barely,” I deadpan.
Mack laughs and wraps me in a quick hug that’s half affection, half headlock. Then he releases me and his gaze slides to Riley. His grin shifts—less wild, more assessing. Protective, in the way my brothers are without thinking about it.
“So you’re Riley.”
Riley holds her hand out, polite, but there’s a glint in her eyes that tells me she’s not intimidated by the Hawthorne energy. “I am.”
Mack shakes her hand. “I like you already. You look like you’d insult Crewe’s coffee and survive.”
“I have,” Riley says. “Multiple times.”
Mack barks a laugh. “Perfect. Welcome to the family.”
Nash appears from the elevators like he owns the building—quiet, controlled, oldest-brother gravity. He looks the same as always: steady eyes, broad shoulders, the kind of calm that makes everyone else stand up straighter without realizing why.
Delaney Coleman stands next to him. She always has. They were inseparable as kids, and now it looks like not much has changed.
Nash’s gaze meets mine, and something unspoken passes between us: we’re here for a reason.
“Crewe,” he says, clasping my shoulder once. Then his eyes shift to Riley. A beat of inspection, not unkind. “Riley. Thank you for keeping him human.”
Riley blinks, then smiles softly. “I’m trying.”
Nash’s mouth twitches. “Good. Because he’s terrible at it on his own.”
Mack snorts. “Facts.”
We get the introductions out of the way, everyone meeting Riley for the first time.
Then, we move upstairs to a private lounge. Nash chose the place, which means it’s quiet, secure, and has an exit route he’s already clocked. Old habits don’t die. They just get invited to meetings.
Riley sits beside me on the couch. Mack drops into a chair across from us, sprawling like he’s made of confidence and good decisions he absolutely does not plan to make.
Nash doesn’t waste time.
He sets his phone on the table between us and taps the screen.
“Dean Maddox is putting together a team,” Nash says. “Maddox Security. They’re good. The best kind of good—quiet, competent, and hard to kill. Dean believes Dad is alive.”
Mack’s grin fades by a fraction. “We’ve been over this.”
Nash lifts his eyes. “Not like this.”
He hits play.
A grainy video fills the screen. It’s surveillance footage—street-level, slightly angled, the kind you’d miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
A man steps into frame.
My breath stops.
It’s not just the shape of his shoulders. Not just the way he walks—like the world should move around him. It’s the tilt of his head. The pause before he turns, scanning the street like he’s counting threats without thinking.
And then he looks up—just for a second—and the camera catches his face.
Older. Hardened. Beard rough along his jaw.
But it’s him.
Dad.
Mack sits forward so fast his chair legs scrape. “That’s—”
Nash pauses the video. His voice is quiet. “That’s our father.”
Mack swallows. “That footage is old. It has to be. Some archived clip from years ago.”
Nash shakes his head once. “No,” he says. “It was last week.”
Silence slams into the room.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. My hands go cold, then hot, like my body can’t decide if this is real or a dream I’m not allowed to have.
Last week.
Dad’s alive.
Out there.
Breathing.
I feel Riley’s fingers tighten around mine. I look at her, and she’s watching me—not the video. Me. Reading the storm inside my chest like she’s learned my weather patterns.
“Crewe,” she whispers.
I can’t speak.
I just stare at the frozen image of a man I buried without a body.
Nash’s voice stays steady. “Dean thinks Dad’s been forced underground. He thinks someone’s been controlling him—using him. Or keeping him hidden because he knows something that could destroy them.”
Mack’s voice is rough. “Who?”
Nash exhales. “We don’t know yet. But we have leads. Enough to start pulling threads.”
My throat finally unlocks. “Why now?”
Nash looks at me. “Because Dad surfaced. Because somebody slipped. Because there’s movement. And because Maddox doesn’t chase ghosts unless he can catch them.”
Mack drags a hand down his face, trying to hold himself together. “So what. You want us to drop everything and go hunting?”
“Yes,” Nash says simply.
Mack’s jaw tightens. “Crewe’s still Air Force.”