Stryker's arm drapes across my waist, heavy and warm. The compression wrapping around his ribs shows white against tanned skin in the dim light from the corridor filtering under my door. Bruising spreads across his chest in spectacular shades of purple and black, evidence of the rounds that hit his vest during the firefight. He could have died out there. Should have died, probably, if the angles had been slightly different or the vest had failed.
But he came back. Came back bleeding and hurt and stayed when I asked him to. Slept in my bed instead of his own quarters recovering alone like I suspect he's done a hundred times before.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him. His arm tightens reflexively, pulling me closer even in sleep. Protective and possessive in equal measure. Warmth spreads through me despite my best efforts to maintain emotional distance.
This is dangerous. Letting myself depend on him. Letting Lucas see him as permanent when nothing about our situation is permanent. The Committee is still hunting us. They'll send someone else. Someone potentially more dangerous than Kessler. We're living in a bunker because my son witnesseda murder, and no amount of good sex or whispered promises changes that reality.
But lying here with Stryker's breathing steady against my hair and his warmth pressed along my side feels safer than anything has in years. Maybe that's the real danger. Not the Committee or their assassins, but the illusion of safety that makes me forget how quickly everything can be taken away.
The digital clock on the nightstand shows early morning. Lucas will be waking soon in the next room, probably already awake and listening through the bathroom door that connects our quarters. Guilt twists through me. Khalid promised to check on him if I wasn't there when he woke, but having Stryker in my bed with my six-year-old son just through the bathroom feels reckless in ways that have nothing to do with the Committee.
I ease out from under Stryker's arm, moving slowly to avoid jostling his ribs. He stirs but doesn't wake, exhaustion keeping him under despite years of training that probably taught him to wake at the slightest disturbance. The fact that he's sleeping this deeply says more about his condition than any medical report.
Clothes are scattered across my floor from last night. I gather them quietly, pulling on enough to be decent before slipping into the bathroom. Cold water on my face helps, but the mirror still reflects dark circles under my eyes and hair that needs serious attention. There's also color in my cheeks and a softness around my mouth that hasn't been there in years. I look like a woman who's been thoroughly loved, and the sight makes my stomach flip with something between joy and terror.
Lucas's door stands open when I cross through the bathroom. Khalid sits in the chair beside Lucas's bed with a book in his lap, Odin sprawled across the floor. Lucas is awake and talking animatedly about something, his hands moving in emphatic gestures that make Khalid smile.
Relief hits hard enough to steal my breath. Khalid must have heard us moving around and come early. Or maybe Lucas called for him. Either way, my son wasn't alone wondering where I was.
When I step fully into the room, still wearing yesterday's clothes, Khalid's eyes flick to me briefly before returning to Lucas. Understanding passes between us without words. This kid has become an unexpected ally in navigating the minefield of Lucas's questions and my complicated situation with Stryker.
"Mom!" Lucas spots me and scrambles out of bed, launching himself at me with the kind of trust that makes my throat tighten. "Khalid said you were helping Mr. Stryker feel better because he got hurt fighting the bad guys."
I shoot Khalid a grateful look over Lucas's head. He just nods slightly.
"That's right," I say, smoothing Lucas's sleep-mussed hair. "Mr. Stryker needed some help with his injuries. But I'm here now. You hungry for breakfast?"
"Starving!" Lucas pulls back, grinning up at me. "Can we go get breakfast? Khalid says Willa makes really good pancakes on Sundays."
"It's Sunday?" Time has lost all meaning down here without windows or natural light to mark the days.
"Tommy keeps the calendar," Khalid says, closing his book and standing. Odin rises with him, stretching with a jaw-cracking yawn. "He says maintaining routine helps with morale when you're inside the mountain for extended periods."
The communal area is busier than I expected. Tommy sits at one of the tables with Sarah, both of them nursing coffee and reviewing something on a tablet. Willa moves through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, flipping pancakes on a griddle while Mercer sets plates and utensils on the counter. Dylan emerges from the corridor with his arm in a proper sling, lookingpale but mobile. Reagan appears beside him immediately, her hand finding his good arm.
The domestic normalcy of it all feels surreal. These are the same people who went out last night and killed Committee operatives. Now they're making pancakes and setting tables like a strange, lethal family.
Lucas makes a beeline for Willa and the pancakes, chattering away. She greets his enthusiasm with a warm smile, even letting him help flip one under her watchful eye. Khalid follows, Odin padding along hopefully.
I pour coffee from the carafe on the counter and settle at the table where Sarah and Tommy are working. They look up when I sit, offering tired smiles.
"Morning," Sarah says. "Sleep okay?"
The question is innocent enough, but something in her expression suggests she knows exactly how I spent the night. Heat creeps up my neck despite my best efforts at composure.
"Well enough," I manage. "How's Dylan?"
"Stubborn," Sarah says, glancing toward where Dylan has claimed a seat despite Willa's obvious disapproval. "Willa wanted him on bed rest for another day at minimum. He insisted on being up for the briefing."
"What briefing?"
Tommy and Sarah exchange a look. Tommy clears his throat. "Kane called a team meeting for after breakfast. Cross arranged something. He'll explain when everyone's together."
The careful way they're not saying more tells me everything. This is about Lucas. About his testimony. It has to be that. My hands tighten on the coffee mug.
"It's about my son, isn't it?"
Sarah's expression gentles. "Kane will explain. But Rachel, it's a good thing. Cross came through with contacts who can help."
