Natasha
The rich scent of coffee draws us out of the bedroom a little after 8:00 a.m.
“Did you buy out the whole restaurant?” Doc gapes at the trays of food covering every flat surface but the desk. That’s reserved forfivecarafes of coffee.
“There’s more in the other suite,” West says, ambling in with a delicate china cup in his hand. “Blame Gladys and her ‘grandson.’ They were in charge of ordering.”
“And paying,” Xavier says.
“Only fair. I’m not going to see my wife for a week while she fixes the design flaw you exploited to get in here.” The former SEAL shakes his head and tops off his coffee. “Austin called. At 4:32 a.m. this morning, two FBI agents knocked on Nathaniel Sapier’s door. He jumped out a second-floor window, stole his neighbor’s car, and—with the Fibbies in pursuit—drove said car off the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Divers recovered his body an hour ago.”
I shiver, the memory of him dragging the knife down my chest still all too fresh.
Doc wraps his arm around my waist and leads me over to the couch. “Sit down. You’re too pale. I’ll get us some coffee.”
“I got it.” Graham emerges from the other bedroom and shuts the door behind him. He wears a t-shirt with a sparkly unicorn prancing across his chest, and his brown hair sticks up in all directions. At my stare, his cheeks tinge pink. “I work at a bar called the Unicorn on the weekends. When we’re not on mission, anyway. This is actually Q’s shirt. I, uh…sometimes bring it with me if I can.”
Gladys shuffles in and plops down next to me. “I think I need to visit this Unicorn place, hot stuff.”
“Gladys!” I hiss. “He’s in a relationship.”
She scoffs. “I know. His man is hot too. He showed me pictures. I’m old. Not blind.”
Xavier covers his face with his hands and mutters, “The cartel tortured me for six days last year, and it wasn’tthispainful.”
Over breakfast, Xavier tells us that when he was ten, he and his mother were living on the streets. Gladys and Donald took them in, and though Xavier was recruited by “an agency he can’t tell us about” right out of high school, he kept tabs on Gladys and Bella. The minute Gladys called her grand-niece to tell her she was safe—and on her way to the Five Points—Bella called Xavier.
“I wasfine,” Gladys says with a dramatic sigh. “That girl and I are going to have words when I get home.“ She turns to Xavier and wags her finger at him. “That young man you threatened last night hasn’t shown his face since. You owe him an apology.”
“I know.” Xavier looks to Graham, who shakes his head.
“Not a good idea, dude. Rip knows why you did it. But he doesn’t want to see you. Leave it alone. And maybe…take a hike before too long. He’s not coming out until you do.”
West slips back through the connecting door. “Got the all clear from CID and the D.C. Police. The records of Natasha’s confession, arrest, and incarceration have been erased. Trevor called in a few favors at the CIA and they’re investigating GrayZone—and Ambassador Norton. Wren and Zephyr—she works with Austin—are combing through emails and phone records so we can make sure everyone involved is dead and buried, but…it’s over, Natasha. You’re safe now.”
Doc wraps me in his warm embrace, and his deep voice is my anchor in the storm of emotions threatening to carry me away. “Let’s go home.”
EPILOGUE
Two weeks later
Doc
We spentour first few hours on Blakely installing a new French door, then passed most of the evening at Gladys’s house with West, Cam, Inara, and Royce.
Natasha’s not in danger any longer—that we know of—but the former SEAL wasn’t taking any chances. In a few hours, Lucas and three of Cam’s installers will show up to put in a new Oversight system at the house, and then…maybe I’ll be able to truly relax.
My house was a goddamn mess when we got back to Seattle. I packed up the last few things I cared about—the photo of me and Tessa, the quilt my mother made me when I left for college, and the handful of medals I earned as a PJ—and Natasha and I moved into a suite at the Five Points Seattle.
I’ve wanted her every day, but she’s been moving so gingerly, so carefully, like she’s afraid she’ll simply shatter, that we haven’t done more than kiss.
But here, in Natasha’s house—our house now—after a night with some of those who’ve become our family, maybe we can find the last bit of healing we’ve needed.
I lock the door, double-check the windows, and carry our suitcases into the bedroom. Natasha sits on the bed, fresh tears falling in trails down her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I’m at her side in two steps, and gather her into my arms. “Talk to me, baby.”
“I can’t believe we’re here.” She sniffles and swipes her handcarefullyunder her nose. It’ll be sore for another few weeks. The bruises under her eyes have only just started to fade.
