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“He’s just…” Lexi propped up her other foot. “I’m just getting a bad vibe from him. That’s all.”

“And Vann? He might be a little terse, but he’s so…” The wind threatened goosebumps on her skin, but they smoothed as she replayed his voice in her head.

“So…?”

“Hot.”

“You know, you have a type, and he fits it like a sterile glove.” Lexi adjusted her other boot to work on the next lace, but paused to waggle her eyebrows at Eryn.

Eryn snorted a laugh and dashed up the stairs to put on real shoes.

While the others opened the moving truck—not that the stuff from his apartment had even filled half of it—Vann stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked to the front door.

Something was fucked up in Lost Beach. Too many violent deaths for a tourist town. On the plus side, the place was smack-dab between Bennett and Adair in Seattle, and Quinn and Ryan in Northern California.

He pulled the sparse keyring from his pocket and unlocked the front door. The echo of his boots on hardwood, the paint hardly dry on blank walls. Not a speck of dust anywhere. The place was… fuck, a little bleak.

A slice of the void inside the house was filled with the hum of the ocean surging and receding.

He smoothed his fingertips over the concrete countertops. A range he could make a feast on, then lay it all out on the massive island. The living room fireplace was so wide that he could fit a trio of oversized couches around it, and the team could crash for hours to research, plan, or just hang out.

But ahead—that was why he’d offered cash and a quick closing date. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the endless expanse of ocean. Mist obscured land, sea, and sand, merging them into a lonely canvas.

Vann stood in the doorway and inhaled the crisp, coastal air. The occasional bark of a dog playing fetch. The carefree laugh of a carefree tourist floated up from the beach.

Behind him, sounds of life, the sound of home itself, warmed his new place.

“Rotate it sideways.” Lana stood backward in the front door, clutching the edge of the ancient sofa.

From the other end of the sofa, Bennett growled playfully, “I told you we’d have to take the feet off.”

“Hurry your asses up. This shit isn’t moving itself.” Laughter undermined the fading military cadence of Archer’s speech.

Vann dashed over and grabbed a side of the sofa with Lana, pretending it was heavy. Well, it was heavy as fuck, but nothing for a hunter. Lana feigned a few gasps and white knuckles.

“I got it,” Vann said.

A sharp glare fired back.

“How did you and Quinn get it out of the apartment?” she asked, huffing an exaggerated breath.

“Talent.” They had indeed taken the stubby legs off.

They rotated the awkward piece of furniture and made it inside—thanks to the wider door. His new neighbors followed with boxes.

Fuck, he was in deep shit. Eryn had sounded cute on the phone, but in person, she was… hot.

And… he’d been a hermit for way too long.

A confidence in her posture, an arrogance in her smile, and a sweetness in her honey-brown eyes.

As a sworn singleton for at least another century, Lana was supposed to be his partner in bachelorhood. After she fell hard and fast for Archer, they’d all been looking at Vann. As if he was fated for a similar happily ever after. Like his happily ever after wasn’t inscribed with death.

His romantic prophecy was so insignificant to the fate of the world that it wasn’t written anywhere. Guaranteed to end in death, no matter what he did. Thanks, Grandma, for sharing that vision with him at the tender age of eight.

“Obviously, it should be centered in front of the fireplace.” Bennett nudged the sofa over a foot.

Lana nudged it back. “Obviously, it should balance between the kitchen and the windows.”