“She'll want to go home,” Sage murmurs after a few miles, her voice quiet enough to blend with the hum of the tires.
“You know she cannot. You will have to convince her she is safest at the cabin under my protection.”
She turns to the window, pressing her palm to the glass as the trees rush past. Vega shifts his weight closer to her legs, sensing her unease. She lowers her hand, stroking the dog's fur inslow, rhythmic passes. The motion calms the anxiety I can feel radiating from her, even without looking.
“Hope won't like it,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. “She hates feeling trapped.”
“She will understand once you explain the alternative.”
Sage's reflection in the window shows her biting her lip, a habit I have noticed when she is working through difficult truths.
“Kolya just checked in. No tails so far,” Misha reports, his eyes cutting to Sage in the rearview mirror.
“Keep it that way,” I reply.
The drive continues in tense silence. I watch the landscape roll past, the familiar terrain offering little comfort. My mind runs through contingencies, backup plans for the backup plans. Every detail matters when lives are on the line, especially these lives. Sage has become more than a responsibility. She's become necessary, and that terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.
By the time we reach the Denver outskirts, the sky is fully awake. The facility rises from a stretch of private land, a modern structure of stone and glass surrounded by pine. Discreet cameras blink along the gate posts. Every inch of the property is monitored, every staff member vetted. It's as close to safe as I can make anything in this world.
Misha speaks into his comms. “Kolya, hold position by the main drive. I will secure the interior.”
I step out first. Gravel crunches underfoot, the air tinged with antiseptic and pine sap. Vega jumps out beside me, alert, scanning. His ears swivel, tracking sounds I can't hear. Thedog's instincts are sharper than most men, and I've learned to trust them. Sage hesitates only long enough for me to catch the anxiety in her eyes before she follows.
Inside, the temperature drops. The facility hums with quiet order, filled with muted voices, distant beeps, and the faint scent of disinfectant. A nurse at the front desk glances up, recognition flashing before she lowers her gaze again. They know who I am here and what I represent. Fear is a useful tool when applied correctly.
Albert meets us by the security doors. His size dwarfs the narrow corridor, his stance relaxed but ready. The man is a wall of muscle and violence when necessary, but he knows how to temper it in places like this. “She's awake and dressed. Paperwork is being processed now.”
“Any unusual activity this morning?” I ask.
“Nothing. Staff rotations are on schedule. Cameras are clear.”
Good. That's what I want to hear. But the tension coiled in my gut doesn't ease. Something feels off, a wrongness I can't name yet.
Sage moves ahead before I can stop her, the sight of the hallway pulling her forward like a magnet. I follow close enough that Vega's shoulder grazes my leg. The dog stays between us and the rest of the facility, protective instincts on full display.
Hope sits on the side of the bed in a private recovery room, sunlight stretching across her lap. Her skin is pale, but her eyes are bright, that familiar Bellamy blue. When she spots Sage, her expression transforms, relief, disbelief, and joy all crossing her features in rapid succession.
“Sage.”
Sage crosses the room in seconds, pulling her into a hug. The sound that leaves Hope is half-laugh, half-sob. Vega settles near the wall, his tail sweeping the floor once. I stand near the doorway, watching. Misha lingers behind me, arms crossed, eyes scanning every exit. The reunion is touching, but we can't afford sentimentality right now.
“I'm okay,” Hope insists, though her voice trembles. “I promise, I'm okay.”
Sage cups her sister's face. “You scared me. You always do.”
Hope smiles faintly. “You look different. Happier.” Her eyes slide toward me before returning to Sage. “Is that because of him?”
Sage flushes, color rising in her cheeks. “It's because you're safe.”
She takes Hope's hand, her thumb tracing the IV bruise that's already fading. “You're coming with us,” Sage whispers. “You'll stay at the cabin where you'll be safe.”
Hope frowns. “What about home?”
“There is no home,” Sage admits, her voice soft but certain. “Not right now.”
The truth of it burns somewhere low in my chest. Home isn't a place for any of us. It's whatever is still standing after the smoke clears.
Albert steps in. “Discharge forms are ready. Transport team is on standby near the loading bay.”
