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Not rattled.

Turned.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Someone was trying to open it.

Wolf moved to the wall beside the door, gun raised, stance ready. His voice was a low, controlled growl meant for me alone:

“If this door opens, get behind the bed. Do not move until I say.”

My pulse thundered in my ears.

From the other side of the door, something brushed against the wood.

A soft thud.

Another scratch.

Weight shifting.

Wolf narrowed his eyes at the doorknob.

It stilled.

Silence.

Then—

KNOCK.

Not loud.

Not frantic.

A single knock.

Soft.

Measured.

Wrong.

Wolf’s voice cut through the air.

“Trigger?” he called quietly.

In the hallway, a beat of silence—

Wolf’s eyes went ice cold.

This wasn’t Trigger.

It wasn’t Saint.

It wasn’t Havoc.