Back in the bedroom that I assume is his, I walk into the bathroom, revealing another study in controlled luxury. Stone tiles, a deep, glass-enclosed shower, and towels folded with military precision. I strip, turn the water on, and step beneath the spray, heat pouring over me, warming me from the outside in.
My shoulders sag as the warmth seeps into muscle and bone, washing away the grime of travel and the phantom sting of rain against my skin. I brace my hands against the wall and let my head drop forward, eyes closing as memories flicker unbidden through my mind.
The road.
The fear.
The moment my strength finally gave out.
And then—James’s arms.
Strong, certain, and unyielding.
I swallow hard and finish washing, moving through the motions on autopilot. When I step out, I wrap myself in one of his towels—the fabric thick and warm, carrying the faint scent of him, wood smoke and cinnamon.
I dress in the clothes I find folded neatly on the counter—soft, oversized, and unmistakably his. When I step back into the main space, the aroma hits me first. Something sweet and savory. I follow the scent until I end up in the kitchen. I pause at the threshold and watch James standing at the counter with his back to me, shoulders broad beneath a plain shirt, movements economical and quiet. He doesn’t turn when he hears me. He already knows I’m there.
“There’s soup and bread. Eat,” he commands.
Without question, I take the seat he’s already pulled out for me. He sets a bowl in front of me, steam curling up between us, then retreats a step, leaning back against the counter like he’s giving me space on purpose.
The first spoonful makes my eyes sting. I hadn’t realized how empty I was until now, how much fear and adrenaline hollowed me out from the inside. I eat slowly at first, then faster, my body taking over while my mind lags.
James watches without staring, his attention steady and unblinking, but not intrusive. When I’m done and my hands have stopped shaking, he speaks again.
“Tell me.”
It’s more of an opening than a demand, so I tell him everything—from Addison’s first call, followed by her disappearance before she resurfaced with news of the list. I tell him about deciding to go on the run, packing in silence while Julian slept, about the road stretching endlessly ahead of me, while my mind replayed every what-if I’d tried not to think about for a year.
James doesn’t interrupt me once, but his jaw tightens harder the more I say. When I tell him about the three days it took me to get here, the moment I thought I might not make it, something dark flickers behind his eyes.
When I’m done, he takes a moment before asking, “And Addison?”
“I think she’s still in Somalia. I haven’t been able to reach her since.”
“How did she track me down?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
James nods once, like he’s already filing that away, while planning something I can’t see yet. He shifts then, his gaze dropping to where Julian sleeps in a portable bassinet near the fire. When he looks back at me, there’s something different in his eyes.
“It’s painfully obvious,” he starts slowly, like he’s stepping onto unstable ground, “and it’s stupid to even be asking this.”
My breath catches because I know what is coming next.
“But is he mine?”
There is no accusation in his tone, just a desire for the truth, so I don’t hesitate to give it to him. “Yes.”
James freezes, watching me, eyes dark and searching, like I’ve flipped his world upside down, which I have.
“His name is Julian James Ellington,” I continue softly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, and I didn’t know your last name, but I wanted him to have something of you. So I gave him James as his middle name. Same as yours, it seems now that I know that your full name is Ryder James Morgan.”
“Addison found that out, too, huh?”
I shrug with a small, sad smile. “My best friend is nothing if not thorough.”
He snorts at that, closing his eyes for a brief moment, like the weight of it finally caught up to him. When he opens them again, I realize one truth: nothing will ever be the same again.
