Page 59 of Priest

Ink’s smile spreads, slow and smug. “I told him if it blew, at least it’d be interesting.”

That earns a soft huff of a laugh from me.

“So, naturally, five minutes later, the power distro for our section trips. Everything on that line goes dark. Battery backups start screaming. Then the base alarm kicks off, and nobody knows if it’s a bad power draw, incoming fire, or some asshole testing the wire.” He lifts a finger before I can say a damn thing. “Not because of me, by the way. Completely unrelated.”

“Of course,” I mutter.

“Anyway, I’m under the table trying to get power rerouted before someone notices the intel guy surrounded by dead equipment and poor choices.” His eyes flick back to Deacon, and the humor shifts into something older. “Then I feel someone grab the back of my vest and yank me out.”

Ink chuckles under his breath. “And there he is. This asshole. Dragging me across the floor while I’m yelling about unsecured cables and how I was this close to fixing it. He shoves me behind a stack of sandbags near the wall, grabs my rifle from where I’d leaned it against the table, and puts it in my hands like I’m the idiot and not the man physically removing me from my life’s work.”

He drops back into Deacon’s voice again. “‘If anything comes through that door that isn’t friendly, pull the trigger.’”

I blink. “You didn’t have your rifle on you?”

Ink gives me a flat look. “I was under a table trying to keep the whole setup from cooking itself.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“Nope.” His mouth tilts. “And Deacon noticed too, thanks. Gave me a full sermon once the lights came back on.” His gaze shifts to the bed. “But in the moment, he didn’t know my name. Didn’t know if I could shoot worth a damn. Just dragged me clear, put my rifle in my hands, and decided I was his problem until I stopped being stupid.”

He exhales, expression softening despite the humor. “Power comes back on. Everything settles. He hands me my pride, points at the mess I’d made, and says—” Ink tilts his head, voice quieter now. “‘You broke it, you fix it. I’ll stand here.’”

I can see it. Clear as day.

“And?” I prompt.

“And he did,” Ink says simply. “Stood there until I got the system stable. Didn’t say a damn word. Just watched my back. Every time someone walked past, he squared up like they might be trouble.”

Ink’s jaw tightens just a fraction. “When I finally got it working, he nodded once and said, ‘Good.’ Like that settled something.”

He looks down at Deacon again, voice roughening. “That was it. After that, he kept finding me. Mess hall. Briefings. Field ops. Like he’d decided I was his now.”

I let out a slow breath. “Sounds about right.”

Ink snorts. “Yeah. Bastard never asked me to be his brother. Just acted like I already was.”

The room goes quiet again, the machines filling the space Deacon can’t. Ink reaches out, resting two fingers briefly against the rail of the bed.

“When he wakes up,” he says softly, “I’m telling him he still owes me an apology for the vest. Thing never fit right again.”

And finally, the tension in Ink’s shoulders eases.

Just a little.

20

Priest

I just left Ink with Deacon for the night, and I know picking the lock is wrong.

I know it before my hand even touches the door. I know it while the lock gives beneath my fingers, soft and quiet, like the whole damn world is helping me step over a line I’ve got no business crossing. There isn’t a version of this where Blue walks in and smiles because I made myself at home in her apartment without permission. There isn’t a version where she thinks, Isn’t that thoughtful, my emotionally stunted biker broke into my place and cooked me dinner.

Still, I open the door.

Romantic, I tell myself.

Helpful.