I nod, carefully slipping from the bed without disturbing them, pausing to brush a strand of hair from Morgan's face before following him into the hallway.
We move to the kitchen, where the digital clock on the microwave casts an eerie blue glow across the countertops. Matthew pours two fingers of whiskey, slides a glass across to me, then pours his own.
"She can't give her up. Not after tonight," he says, voice low as he leans against the counter.
I knock back the whiskey, feeling it burn down my throat. "Never gonna happen. You saw the way she looked at her."
"She's already attached," Matthew says, eyes drifting toward the hallway. "And Charlie trusts us. After everything she's been through."
My jaw clenches. "Harris is still out there. He left that note—he thinks Morgan belongs to him, that Charlie's his."
The glass creaks in my hand under the pressure of my grip. Six years of special forces training taught me control, to compartmentalize, to plan. But the thought of that monster touching Morgan or Charlie makes my carefully constructed walls crumble.
"We need to find him first," Matthew says, his voice dropping into the deadly calm I recognize from our missions. "Before he comes for them."
I meet his gaze. We've been brothers in arms too long to need explanations. "We take him out."
Not a question, not a suggestion. It's a statement of intent.
"The club will help," Matthew says. "Greyson already has men watching the house."
"Good." I pour another finger of whiskey, my mind calculating angles, approaches, and contingencies. "We need to be smart. Harris knows we have Charlie now, so he'll be watching for weaknesses."
"Morgan won't leave her side," Matthew says, running a hand through his hair. "We need to make this place a fortress."
"We'll do what we have to," I say, voice hardening. "I didn't come back from six years of that hell just to watch some lunatic take everything I came back for."
Silence hangs between us, heavy with understanding. We've seen enough darkness to recognize it when it comes for what we love.
"You know what this means?" Matthew asks, eyes meeting mine in the dim light. "She's ours now. Both of them."
I nod as the realization settles in my bones like truth. "We protect what's ours."
A creak in the hallway has us both reaching for weapons that aren't there. Morgan pads into the kitchen, soft steps, her hair rumpled.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asks, taking in the tension in our postures.
"Just planning," I say, opening my arms.
She moves into my embrace, resting her head against my chest. "Charlie asked me to stay tonight. She didn't want to be alone."
"She won't be alone again," I promise, hand stroking her back. "Not ever."
Morgan pulls back, blue eyes flashing between fear and determination. "What aren't you telling me?"
Matthew and I exchange a look. We never keep secrets from her, and certainly not the important ones.
"We're not letting Harris take her," I say finally. "We're not letting him come near either of you."
Fear flickers in her eyes, but so does steel. "He won't stop. The police said?—"
"The police have procedures," Matthew interrupts, gentle but firm. "We don't."
Morgan's breath catches. "You're talking about killing him."
"Yes," I say, the word stripped of everything but intent.
She stares at us, absorbing the reality. It's not about justice anymore. It's about an ending. Finally, she nods, decisive. "Okay."
