Page 109 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

“It’ll hold.” The words come through clenched teeth.

“That’s not reassuring. Cade, you need a hospital.”

“Relax, baby.” His warm hand finds my thigh, squeezing gently. “I’ve got someone who’ll patch me up.”

“Someone who makes house calls for bullet wounds?” I arch a brow, trying to ignore how his touch both steadies and excites me. “Let me guess—another connection who ‘handles things’?”

His mouth quirks,. “Something like that. An ex-military surgeon.”

“And he’s meeting us in Harmony?”

“We can’t go to Harmony yet. We need to make a stop first.”

Something in his tone makes my stomach twist.

“A stop? ”

“Just a precaution in case we’re still being followed. There are women and children in Harmony, and I don’t need a hit squad tagging along for the ride.”

He hesitates, something passing across his face I can’t read. “Besides, there’s someone who can protect you in case I’m . . . out of commission longer than expected. You might as well meet him.”

“Who is it?”

“Scar.”

He hinted about baggage being there last night. “Let’s hear it, then. Who is he?”

A dangerous smile plays on his lips. “Why spoil the fun? You’ll meet him in less than an hour.”

Forty-five minutes later, the truck veers onto a private road, the hum of the tires on the pavement breaking the silence. Mansions rise on either side, each estate sprawled across acres of land, hidden behind privacy walls and electronic gates.

Cade stops in front of one, and at the touch of a few buttons, the huge gates swing open, revealing a winding drive lined with towering palms. The house ahead rises like a fever dream. Three stories of glass and steel sweep up from manicured grounds, the architecture all sharp angles and clean lines. A circular driveway leads to wide limestone steps flanked by sculptured desert gardens.

“Where are we?” My voice comes out slightly awestruck as he pulls up on the drive.

Cade huffs out a breath. “My house.”

I blink, my gaze snapping back to the building. I’m still struggling to process this when he slides out, rounds the hood, and opensmy door. I can’t even muster a snarky comment about his suddenly impeccable manners.

While he releases Saint, I step out on shaky legs. “You live here?”

“No.” He reaches for our bags. “Scar does.”

I study the house again, trying to reconcile this piece of the puzzle. The sleek modernism feels wrong—too polished for the man I’m coming to know.

“Where do you live, then?”

He turns and fixes me with that unnerving stare that strips everything bare. “Nowhere. Hotels, mostly. I move from hit to hit.”

The words punch the air from my lungs. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was gutting me on purpose. But no—this is just Cade being Cade, honest to the point of brutality.

The kill list. It’s not just work—it’s his whole existence. Every breath, every move is dedicated to hunting. Avenging. A life with no room for normal things.

Like having a home.

“What about Saint? Does he move around with you?”

“No. He stays with familiar faces.” Cade stops in front of me. “Mostly Scar.”

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