“Ah, there he is. The man of the hour,” Beck mocks.
My eyes open slowly. The light hurts, but I squint through it anyway. The first thing I see is his face hovering above mine—older than the last time I saw him in person, laugh lines etched deeper around his eyes.
“Hell of a way to come home,” he scoffs. “You couldn’t just RSVP like a normal person?”
“Missed you too,” I mutter.
It takes everything I have to lift my hand and flip him off.
He outright laughs at the gesture. “Ah, there he is—the Ryder we all love and adore. I was worried for a second.”
Kate’s fingers tighten around my hand, knuckles white like she’s afraid if she loosens her grip, I’ll vanish again. I turn my head enough to see her standing there—exhausted, eyes rimmed red but burning bright.
Beck follows my gaze and grins.
“Well,” he starts, straightening. “You must be Katherine.”
She blinks, a bit startled. “Kate.”
He sticks out a hand, all charm now, like we’re not standing on a runway next to a bleeding-out Morgan, namely me.
“I’m Beck. The handsome younger brother.”
I huff weakly. “He’s married.”
Beck winces theatrically. “And he ruins it.”
“She’s mine,” I add, the words rough but absolute.
Kate sucks in a sharp breath beside me. Beck’s expression shifts—not surprise or judgment, but recognition. He clockseverything in one glance: her hand in mine, the way she leans toward me, and the exhaustion that looks earned.
“Well,” he chuckles softly, “about damn time. Now let’s get you home before you bleed out on us.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder as they start rolling me towards the waiting cars. “Welcome home, big brother. Try not to die on the way—Ella will be pissed.”
I manage a crooked smile just as the lights blur again. Kate’s hand is still in mine when the dark finally takes me, and this time, I don’t fight it at all.
23
KATHERINE
Texas doesn’t ease you in; it announces itself, loudly and unapologetically.
The moment we turn off the highway and onto a long stretch of gravel, the world opens up in a way that feels almost confrontational. Land rolls out in every direction, wide and stitched together by fences that look less like boundaries and more like declarations. The air smells different here—drier and earthier.
The more of it I see, the more I realize that I am a long way from home.
Ryder sits beside me in the backseat, pale and quiet, Julian cradled carefully against his chest. He’s conscious now, eyes open but distant, conserving what little strength he has. His arm curls around our son instinctively, protective even when he can barely lift his head. I keep my hand on his knee, grounding myself as much as him.
We tried getting him to ride in an ambulance, but the stubborn mule said it was too emasculating, so Beck and I caved and let him come in the car with us.
“You okay back there?” Beck asks from behind the wheel, glancing at us in the rearview mirror with an easy grin that feels wildly out of place after everything we’ve just survived.
Ryder doesn’t answer—he rarely speaks, but he’s quieter than usual. He has two holes in him, barely stitched together, so it’s understandable.
“I’m good,” I reply instead. “He’s holding on.”
Beck nods once, the grin softening. “Good. We’re almost home.”
