“Three days.”
My jaw clenches. Three fucking days?! I hate that. I don’t like having lost time and gaps in my memory.
“Kate?” I ask again.
“She’s safe. They both are. Julian’s perfect. He looks just like you.”
“I know.”
“She hasn’t left your side. I had to make her.”
That doesn’t sit right with me, but I don’t say anything after that, and the silence stretches. Ella’s breathing changes, becoming uneven now. I look back at her and see it—the crack in her composure widening. She starts blinking too hard, once, twice, and then her face crumples.
“God,” she whispers, voice breaking. “You’re so stupid. How dare you come back after all this time, on the brink of death? It’s like you only remembered we exist when you’re half dead.”
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with stitches. “Ella…”
She looks at me, eyes furious. “Do you have any idea what it does to Dad? To Zane? To all of us? Beck’s been pacing like a damn caged animal. And me—“ She laughs brokenly. “I’m supposed to be the calm one, to hold it together because everyone else is a man with too much pride, but how could I when we almost lost you?”
I reach for her, my hand finding her small wrist. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
She shakes her head, tears spilling. “You shouldn’t have to almost die to come home.”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I do the only thing I can: I hold on.
She leans forward, pressing her forehead briefly against my knuckles. “You scared me.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I manage, voice rough. “Please stop crying. You know I’m not good with tears.”
She chuckles, and it’s a broken sound, but it’s there.
Before she can tear me a new one, the door opens. Ella straightens fast, wiping her face like she can erase the last five minutes with sheer will. She lifts her chin, armor snapping back into place, even if her eyes are still too bright.
Dad steps in, filling the doorway. He’s older now, more grey at the temples, the lines around his mouth deeper, carved by years of holding a family together with sheer force of presence. His eyes land on me, but they don’t soften, at least not immediately. They assess first, then he nods once, almost imperceptible.
“Son.”
“Dad.”
He moves closer, stopping at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, posture unreadable. “You look like hell.”
A faint huff escapes me. “And I feel like it.”
“Good. It means you’re awake.”
Zane walks in next, all broad shoulders nearly blocking out the light. He’s our firstborn, Iron Stallion’s foreman, and the one who carries the ranch on his back like it’s an extension of his spine. His gaze drops to the bandages, the IV, and his jaw tightens.
“Idiot,” he scoffs.
“Missed you too,” I grunt, earning me a smirk.
Jace rolls in next. Even in his wheelchair, he exudes sharp energy and a soldier’s stillness wrapped in ranch clothes. He and I served in different branches, but it seems we never really left the service—too much of that is still ingrained in us.
“You always had to do things the hard way,” he mocks.
I shrug. “It’s a bad habit. I know.”
And then—
