Page 70 of Theirs to Hunt
Reagan whistles low, but it's Grayson who speaks next, voice a low vibration.
"Devon Carter." The two men exchange a nod that feels it means more than words. A thousand unsaid things pass between them in half a second. I know enough not to poke it.
"So," I say, glancing around the table. "This is brunch now?"
"Apparently," Reagan murmurs, looking way too pleased for someone who definitely didn't expect this to be a group event.
Devon raises his coffee cup a toast. "Better company than I expected."
Brooks snorts, leaning back in the booth. "You didn't have to come, man."
"No," Devon says, eyes sliding to me. "I wanted to." Heat curls low in my stomach. I'm still figuring out what to do with Devon Carter, but whatever it is, it's mine.
The server arrives with the champagne cart, and I watch as Reagan orders a French 75, calm and confident, this is just another Sunday. She doesn't flinch when Grayson lays a hand on her thigh beneath the table. Doesn't even blink when Brooks reaches across to pour her water. It's strange, seeing her this. Relaxed…settled. Like she's dropped her defenses.
And the thing that surprises me most? She doesn't look trapped.
Chapter fifty-eight
Brooks, Sunday 10:30 a.m.
Reagan's laughing at something Bobbie said. Low, probably a little wicked. She tucks her hair behind her ear and leans into Grayson without thinking. My stomach tightens. She doesn't know how closely we watch her. How much weight she carries between us. For Grayson, it's loyalty. For me, it's the way she owns her mistakes without making them anyone else's problem.
But today's not just about her. Devon sits next to me, coffee in one hand, scanning the room always. Casual posture, but his eyes never stop moving. He's not wired for rest. Neither am I.
Grayson leans in slightly as I ask "Still wake up before the sun?"
Devon snorts. "You know I do."
"Some ghosts don’t leave," I say, more to myself than anyone else.
Devon glances over. "You still get those dreams?"
"Sometimes. Could be worse. At least we're not still eating chalk-dry MREs and shitting in trenches." I smirk.
"Speak for yourself. I miss the quiet." He laughs once, real and short.
"You're a sick bastard." Grayson stays silent, but he's locked in. Watching us.
We've danced around this for years.
"I know what you're building," I say to Devon. "I helped pitch the loan package."
Devon nods. "And you pulled the strings to keep it off the radar. Don't think I missed that."
"You needed a chance. Dad gave you one. But what you've done since? That's all you."
Devon's tone is even. "Nightclubs. Restaurants. The kind of influence that camoflauges your reach."
"And the surveillance rig you built from scrap defense contracts," I add. "Still some of the best modular tech I've seen."
"We installed the same gear at her place," Devon says, voice low. "You know that already."
"I do." Grayson finally speaks. "We've all been circling the same fire. Time we stopped pretending otherwise."
Devon lifts an eyebrow. "You suggesting what I think you are?"
"You've got the street-level leverage," I say. "Dad's got the front-facing machine. I sit in the middle."
