Mississippi, 1932

Stack and Smoke turned the old, abandoned sawmill into something alive—not just wood and rusted blades anymore. The scent of fresh-cut pine still clung to the beams, but now it was mixed with spilled whiskey, sweat, and blood.

During the initial chaos—glass shattering, screams like gutted hogs—Smoke's first thought wasn't for his own skin. His hands shook worse than usual, the tremor sending cigarette ash scattering across his shirtfront like gray snow. Where is she? The question pounded behind his ribs, louder than the gunfire. He'd told you a hundred times: When all hell breaks loose, you get small, you get quiet, you stay put. But the last he'd seen of you was your dress hem vanishing into the crowd, pale blue fabric swallowed by the stampede.

The joint's back room smelled of moldy crates and kerosene. Smoke kicked open the door with his boot heel, expecting fangs or worse. Instead—there you were. Wedged behind a busted icebox, knees drawn to your chest, fingers locked around the straight razor he'd slipped into your garter that morning. “Christ alive,” he breathed, voice cracking like dry kindling. His hands still trembled, but now it wasn’t from shell shock—it was the sheer fucking relief of seeing you alive and human. “You scared ten years off me, darlin’. Come on outta there—C’mere.”