“You saved us,” she murmurs.
“No,” I reply, my voice low and fierce. “You saved yourself. I just got there in time to finish it.”
Anya lingers near the doorway, her eyes damp as she watches Sage hold onto me like she is not sure how to let go. Hope sleeps under the soft glow of the clinic lights, her chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm, her body warmed beneath blankets. The monitors beep steadily, a reassuring metronome.
For the first time in days, the silence around us feels gentle. I press a kiss to Sage's temple before stepping back, giving her space to breathe. “I will be right outside.”
She nods weakly, her hand grasping mine before I can fully pull away. “Don't go far.”
Never. I know it, and she knows it.
I step into the hallway, my boots silent on the floor. The adrenaline is starting to drain from my system, leaving behind the bone-deep exhaustion that always follows combat. My shoulders ache, and my jaw throbs from clenching it too long.
The lights here are softer, recessed into the ceiling and filling the corridor with a warm amber glow. The air feels still, undisturbed by the violence that raged just an hour ago. A nurse walks past carrying a tray of medications, her soft-soled shoes squeaking faintly. As she disappears into the clinic, I notice Isaak's wheelchair at the far end of the hallway.
He waits for me, his hands resting on the armrests, his posture rigid despite the toll age and illness have taken on him. His expression holds no apology or sympathy, only piercing calculation. Even weakened and confined to that chair, he radiates authority.
“Report,” he orders, his Russian accent stronger when he is tired.
“It is finished,” I answer, stepping close enough that we will not be overheard. “Ray is dead. Thomas is dead. Their network is dismantled. Every thread they held is severed.”
Isaak studies my face with eyes that have not lost their force despite his failing body. He takes in the blood on my shirt, the exhaustion in my posture, and the grim satisfaction I cannot hide. “And the girl? The weak one.”
“Hope is alive,” I reply, meeting his gaze with firmness that leaves no room for challenge. “She is stable.”
“And Sage?”
I exhale slowly, feeling the tension in my chest ease slightly. “She will be alright.”
Isaak nods once, the motion small but deliberate. “Good. Then let the bodies be buried with their failures.”
“It is over,” I tell him again, the truth settling into my bones like lead. “Finally.”
He leans back in his chair, his eyes drifting down the hall toward the clinic. “Then perhaps you can stop fighting ghosts and start living for what still breathes.”
I swallow hard at the meaning behind the words. It is the closest thing to approval my father has given me in years. Maybe ever.
When I turn back toward the clinic, Sage sits beside Hope's bed with her head bowed, brushing gentle circles along her sister's arm. Vega lies curled at their feet, his ears twitching every time Hope moves. The dog’s presence brings me strange comfort, guarding them even in sleep.
The sight captures me entirely, quiet and safe and alive in a way that steals my breath. This is what I fought for. This is what I nearly lost. This is what I will protect with every ounce of strength I have left in this world.
As I step inside, Sage lifts her eyes to mine. The look she gives me, raw and tired and grateful, lands in my chest with a force I have no defenses against. Everything I have ever wanted is in this room.
For the first time in my life, the war inside me quiets. And for the first time ever, I let myself want more than survival.
18
SAGE
Early spring in Aspen Ridge feels like the world waking up with me. he air still holds a cool edge, but sunlight warms the construction site, loosening my shoulders and making the ground feel solid beneath my feet. Patches of lingering snow sit beneath the pines in the distance, but the earth here is bare and ready, thawed enough for the rebuild to move forward. It smells like sawdust, damp soil, and promise.
The ruins of Bean and Bloom are gone. The charred remains that once stood here have been cleared away, leaving only fresh framing that rises toward the sky. Clean beams, pale in the afternoon light, sketch out the shape of my future. Hammers thrum in a rhythm around me while a few workers laugh about last night's game, their voices floating across the open structure.
I walk through what will become the dining area, my boots crunching over scattered wood shavings. My fingers trail along one of the new support beams, the wood smooth and cool under my palm. The texture reminds me that this is real. I'm really rebuilding. After everything that happened in Seattle, afterThomas, nearly losing Hope and the baby, I'm standing here watching my café come back to life.
The memory of that warehouse tries to push its way in, the cold concrete under my knees, Thomas's gun raised, water pouring from the sprinklers. My hand moves to my stomach without thinking, resting over the curve that's become more visible over the past few weeks. The baby kicks sometimes now, tiny flutters that still surprise me every time I feel them. Life persisting despite everything that tried to stop it.
I force myself to breathe through my nose, pulling in the scent of fresh pine and new beginnings instead of dwelling on what's behind me. The workers' voices help, as do normal conversations about ordinary things. One of them asks another about picking up drywall tomorrow. Someone else mentions needing to grab lunch soon. These simple exchanges wrap around me like a blanket, warm and comfortable.
