Outside, the mountain settles around us like a protective blanket. No Phoenix operatives, no underground tunnels, no gunfire echoing through concrete corridors. Just this moment, this bed, this man who threw himself between me and death without hesitation.
“Cooper?”
“Mmm?”
“What happens now? Tomorrow, I mean. Next week. When you’re healed and Phoenix is still out there wanting me dead.”
His arm tightens around me, and I feel him thinking, processing tactical considerations I can’t begin to understand.
“We figure it out,” he says finally. “Together.”
“Together?”
“Yes, love.” His words settle between us, heavy with promise and uncertainty.Togethercould mean a lot of things—professional partnership, temporary alliance, something deeper that neither of us is ready to name.
But right now, with his heartbeat steady beneath my ear and his arm holding me close,togetherfeels like enough.
“Sleep,” Cooper murmurs, his voice already drifting back toward unconsciousness. “I’ve got the watch.”
Even injured, even exhausted, he’s still trying to protect me. The irony makes me smile into the darkness.
“No,” I whisper back. “I’ve got the watch. You sleep.”
For the first time since this nightmare began, he lets me. I remain awake, listening to Cooper breathe, standing guard over the man who’s made it his mission to keep me alive.
Outside, the stars wheel across the mountain sky, and somewhere in the distance, Phoenix continues its hunt. But here, in this room, wrapped in Cooper’s arms, I finally understand what safety feels like.
It’s not a place or a situation.
It’s a person.
And I’m not letting anything happen to him.
TWENTY-FIVE
Cooper
THE NEXT MISSION
Five daysof mountain air and Doc Summers’s medical expertise have worked miracles. The fog of pain medication has lifted, leaving my mind sharp and focused for the first time since the extraction. My shoulder moves without the grinding agony that’s plagued me, and the abdominal wound pulls but doesn’t scream.
Time to test the machinery.
The Guardian HRS facility includes a state-of-the-art physical therapy room—all polished wood floors, mirrored walls, and equipment that belongs in a professional athlete’s training center rather than a safe house. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, morning sunlight streams across exercise mats and weight machines, painting everything in golden tones that make recovery feel possible.
Ghost watches from the doorway as I work through basic range-of-motion exercises, his presence both supportive and evaluative. Mason Blackwood doesn’t waste time on social visits—if he’s here, it’s because we need to talk.
Doc Summers observes from beside him, her medicalclipboard a reminder that I’m still technically a patient despite feeling more human than I have in days.
“Shoulder flexion is at about seventy percent,” she notes, making observations as I raise my arm overhead. “Better than expected for this stage of healing.”
“Feels good to move without wanting to pass out.”
“That’s the goal.” She caps her pen, satisfied with my progress. “Light duty only. No heavy lifting, no combat training, no activities that could tear your stitches.”
The restrictions chafe, but I understand the medical necessity. Pushing too hard too fast turns minor setbacks into major complications.
“How long before full clearance?”
