“What's the update on Hope?” she asks, and just like that, the world beyond this room rushes back in.
“Discharge paperwork at ten. They want to monitor her through the early morning. Then she can leave.”
Sage straightens, the movement subtle but defiant. Her spine goes rigid, shoulders pulling back in preparation for a standoff. “I'm coming with you to get her,” she insists. “Then I'm taking her home.”
“There is no world where that happens,” I answer, quiet but immovable.
Her brows pull together, the spark of challenge already there. She adjusts against the headboard, the sheet bunching around her waist as she turns to face me fully. “You think I'm letting her go to the apartment alone while Ray is out there somewhere and your enemies are circling? I'm not reckless.”
“I think,” I cut in, “you are a sister who would throw herself in front of a bullet for the people she loves.” I let the words hang for a breath, the truth charged between us. “Both of you will stay at the cabin. That is the only way I can protect you.”
Her throat works, anger and fear warring in her eyes. The blue deepens, stormy and fierce, and I can see her mind working through arguments, searching for leverage she doesn't have. “You can't keep me locked away while you decide what's safe.”
Her voice shakes at the edge of that sentence, and I notice her hands flatten on her thighs as if bracing for refusal. Last night did not quiet the part of her that's spent too long surviving on her own.
I lean in, slide my palm to the back of her neck, and feel the shiver that moves through her when I bring my mouth close. Her pulse jumps rapidly beneath my thumb.
“You are with me from now until I tell you otherwise,” I murmur, my breath warming the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
She goes still, every muscle tensing under my touch. For a moment, I think she'll fight me, that stubborn streak rising to meet my command. But then something changes in her expression, resignation mixing with acceptance, and I know she understands the stakes even if she hates them.
“I'm getting dressed,” she answers, slipping from my grasp as she rises from the bed.
I catch her wrist, my thumb tracing the pulse that betrays her calm. The beat hammers against my fingers, proof that she's not as composed as she wants me to believe. “Sage.”
She meets my gaze, chin lifting in defiance, but she doesn't quite hold onto it. “I heard you,” she murmurs, her voice even but low. “I'll stay with you.”
I release her and stand. The cool air hits my bare skin, the ache across my shoulders a reminder of how hard I held her when her nails dug into my back, and she breathed my name like a salvation she did not trust. I reach for a shirt, slacks, and the gun that slides into the holster inside my jacket with the clean finality of routine. Control reassembles itself in layers. The man the world obeys arrives, button by button, buckle by buckle, but he is not untouched by the man who woke with Sage's hair across his chest.
She dresses quickly, with no coyness in her movements, just practical purpose. She pulls on dark jeans and a simple sweater that makes her eyes look bluer than ocean water before a storm. When she turns toward me, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and does not hide the fact that she wants my approval. It is a small, lethal thing, the way she looks at me now, searching for confirmation that I see her as more than an obligation.
I step closer and straighten the seam of her sleeve, then press my mouth to her temple. The gesture is brief but deliberate, a promise I don't speak aloud.
“Eat something,” I advise. “Coffee is not food.”
She nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and follows me from the room.
Sage trails beside me as we descend the cabin stairs, the quiet of morning still folded around us like mist. Vega remains at my side, every muscle attuned to my pace, loyalty instinctive and absolute.
“You're sure she's ready?” Sage asks, her voice low but threaded with fragility.
“She is stable,” I answer. “Albert has been with her every hour. The doctor cleared the release.”
She reaches the kitchen counter and grabs a blueberry muffin from the basket. Her movements are automatic, muscle memory taking over while her mind stays locked on Hope. I've watched her do this before, go through the motions while worry eats at her from the inside. It's a particular form of strength, the ability to function even when fear threatens to overwhelm.
Misha waits by the front door, already in a black jacket, gun holstered, and earpiece in. His expression is neutral, the mask of professionalism. “Convoy's ready. Two SUVs. Kolya is in the lead car. Albert is waiting at the center.”
I nod once. “We keep the route tight. No stops. No chatter on open channels.”
Sage bites into the muffin but doesn't taste it. I can tell by the distracted way she chews, her eyes distant. She's alreadyrunning scenarios in her head, imagining every possible disaster that could unfold. I place my hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the door. She tenses at first, then slowly exhales and lets me lead her.
The contact grounds us both.
Outside, the air is sharp with cold, frost glazing the gravel drive in pale silver. The SUVs' engines hum low, a warning in the stillness. It's the time of day when the world feels suspended between darkness and dawn, and anything seems possible. I don't trust it.
Vega leaps into the backseat as I open the door for Sage. She slides in beside him, her fingers brushing his fur automatically. The dog settles against her legs, his bulk a living shield. I take the passenger seat while Misha drives. The leather is cold beneath me, carrying the faint scent of leather and gun oil.
The silence between us stretches. The mountain road winds downward, and light spills over the peaks like liquid gold. Aspen Ridge disappears behind us as we descend, the town's picturesque charm fading into forest and rock. This road is one I know by heart, every curve and blind spot memorized through years of use. It's a secure route, but nothing is ever truly safe.
