The dogs appear at my sides without a sound. They circle once, alert, scanning the tree line, then fall into step as I turn back toward the house. The alarms are still armed, but that’s a problem for later. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting them inside.
Rain soaks my shirt through, cold seeping into muscle and bone, but I barely register it. My focus is on them—the way her head lolls against my shoulder and the baby’s uneven breaths, tiny fists clenched in the fabric of her sweater. The fact that she found me, through miles of nothing and weather that would’ve turned most people around hours ago, leaves me with a lot of unanswered questions, but there will be time for answers later.
I push through the door and into the house, kicking it shut behind me once the dogs are in too. I don’t stop moving until I reach the living area. I lower her carefully onto the couch, keeping her on her side, one arm still wrapped protectively around the baby. I kneel, stripping off her soaked shoes, peeling away layers with hands that are steady by force alone.
She’s pale, lips faintly blue.
“Fuck,” I grunt under my breath.
I scoop the baby up gently, cradling him against my chest while I grab a blanket with my free hand. He lets out a soft, indignant sound like he’s deeply offended by the whole situation.
“I know, I know. It’s going to be okay,” I whisper, voice rough.
I wrap him snugly, then set him down in the center of the couch before turning back to Kate. Her breathing is shallow but steady, letting me know that she’s alive. Thank God.
I strip off her wet jacket, then her sweater and pants, replacing them with dry layers from the hall closet. She stirs once, brow furrowing, lips parting like she’s trying to say something, but she doesn’t wake.
When she’s settled, I kneel back, hands braced on my thighs, and finally let myself look.Really look.This is Kate. The woman who walked into my life and wrecked my precision with a smile and too many words. The woman I left in the US embassy in Mogadishu without looking back. The woman who should be anywhere but here.
And that baby—
I glance at him again, at the dark hair plastered to his small head, at the shape of his nose and the familiar line of his jaw.Recognition lands like a punch I never saw coming. No. Not yet. I don’t let myself go there. Not without all the facts.
The fire crackles as I stoke it higher, heat filling the room. Outside, thunder rolls, shaking the windows, but inside my fortress, everything narrows to this moment.
Kate stirs again, a faint sound leaving her throat.
“I’m here,” I say quietly, even though she still doesn’t hear me. “You’re safe.”
I don’t know if that’s a promise or a lie yet.
But standing there, soaked to the skin, watching over the woman who somehow found me and the child who might change everything, one truth settles heavy and unavoidable in my gut: the war I was avoiding has just made it to my door.
17
KATHERINE
I wake up warm, and that’s the first thing that feels wrong. Warmth clings to me in a way I don’t recognize. It’s not the thin, artificial heat of a motel room or the uneven chill of my apartment at night. This warmth is steady and surrounding, like the air itself has decided to hold me together instead of pulling me apart.
Then I breathe in, and cinnamon fills my lungs. The scent curls through me slowly, like bark warmed by sun and earth after rain. It settles somewhere in my chest before my mind has fully caught up, and for a suspended second, I don’t remember where I am or how I got here.
My eyes open, and the ceiling above me is unfamiliar. Steel beams intersecting with glass panels that let in pale morning light. No cracks or water stains, and no soft, domestic clutter. The room feels intentional and controlled, like everything in it exists because someone decided it should and nothing more.
My body registers next. I feel heavy, sore, and exhausted. My muscles ache like they’ve been wrung dry and left to stiffen, my head thick and foggy, the edges of my thoughts blurred. Bit by bit, the memories hit.
The road.
The worry.
The storm.
The rain that felt endless, punishing, soaking me through no matter how tightly I held Julian to my chest.
Oh my God! Julian!
The thought of my son hits me like ice water. I push myself upright too fast, the room tilting sharply as my pulse spikes. My heart slams against my ribs, drowning out everything else as my eyes fly to the space beside me, but it’s empty. The blankets are rumpled where he should be. No bassinet. No soft bundle of fabric. No tiny rise and fall of his breathing.
“No,” I whisper, already moving.
