26
RYDER
Kate sleeps peacefully next to me, her breathing is slow and even, her face turned slightly into the pillow, lashes dark against her cheeks. The early light through the ranch curtains paints her in soft gold, a kind of warmth that still doesn’t feel real in my hands. I’ve been awake for hours. Dawn has always been my hour, the quiet stretch of time where the world is still and my mind is sharp.
But this morning, sharpness isn’t the thing keeping me awake. It’s her.
My arm is stiff where it’s draped across her waist, healing muscles protesting the position, but I don’t move. I’d rather feel pain than risk waking her. She shifts once, murmuringsomething incoherent, her fingers tightening briefly around the fabric of my shirt. The sensation hits deep, unsettling in the way softness always is. She trusts the space beside me, and that I’ll still be here when she opens her eyes.
Yesterday plays on a loop in my head—her voice, the way she said she wanted more, how she looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon or a ghost, but a human being she wanted no matter how damaged. I told her I didn’t know how, she told me she’d teach me, and I promised her I’d try.
The promise sits heavy in my chest. I’ve made promises before—contracts wrapped in blood and precision, vows to complete jobs, to eliminate targets, to disappear cleanly—but this is different. The thought should make me scoff. Instead, it makes my throat tighten because it’s made me realize that I’m in love with her.
The realization is quiet, almost clinical, and still it shocks the hell out of me. Love isn’t something that belongs in my life. Love is a liability, a weakness, an open door. I built my existence around closed doors, solitude, and around the idea that wanting is how you get killed. And yet here she is, sleeping in my bed like she belongs there, like she always has. And for the first time in a long time, I realize that I really do want to stay.
Julian fusses softly from the cot near the window, a small, restless sound that sharpens into a whimper. I move immediately, grateful when Kate doesn’t stir, step out of bed and cross the room, lifting him with practiced hands. He blinks up at me with eyes too knowing for a baby.
“Easy,” I murmur under my breath, more instinct than tenderness. “Daddy’s got you.”
Daddy. Yes. That’s another title I’m taking up. Yesterday I asked Kate to let Julian take my last name, and she agreed.
Coming back home, seeing all my siblings happy with their spouses and kids, made me wish for the same—for someone who belonged to me—and I realized that Kate and Julian are those people. Now I just have to make good on my word so that she never regrets giving me a chance.
I change him quickly, then carry him out before he can wake Kate. Rook and Ash are already there in the hallway, sitting like sentries. They’ve been on edge since the attack, muscles coiled, eyes tracking every sound. They sniff Julian gently, tails thumping once, then they follow us downstairs and into the kitchen that smells like coffee and bacon when we walk in.
The rest of the house is already awake. Beck is leaning against the counter, a smug grin on his face, as soon as his eyes land on Julian in my arms.
“Didn’t think you were the domestic type,” he muses.
“You think wrong a lot,” I retort.
Ella looks up from her laptop, coffee in hand. “Don’t scare him off, Beck. He’s trying.”
“Trying what?” Beck asks innocently. “Parenthood? Feelings? Shirts that don’t look like tactical gear?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, shifting Julian higher.
Julian hiccups softly, and Beck’s expression softens for half a second before the humor snaps back into place.
“Morning, brother,” Zane’s voice comes from behind me, steady as ever.
I nod once before I start moving around the kitchen, measuring water into the kettle, warming the milk, and testing it against my wrist. Julian watches me with round, alert eyes, like he’s taking notes.
Rook and Ash track every step I take, nails clicking softly against the hardwood. I fill their bowls, food first, then water, and they eat with the disciplined patience of trained animals.
After Julian is well fed and burped, I begin plating breakfast without thinking too hard about why I’m doing it: eggs, toast, fruit, and bacon.
I’m sliding it onto the counter when Kate walks in. She looks like morning belongs to her—hair loose, face bare, eyes bright in a way that makes the room feel warmer. She pauses when she sees me, something soft passing over her expression.
Then she crosses the space like she’s done it a hundred times and curls into my side. Her head rests briefly against myshoulder, her arm slipping around my waist. My body goes rigid on instinct, the old reflex screaming at contact, closeness, and vulnerability in the open. For half a second, I don’t know what to do with myself.
Then she exhales, content, and the tension eases. She’s teaching me like she said she would. Slowly, patiently, and with touch instead of words.
“Good morning,” she murmurs.
“Morning, beautiful,” I manage, because I have to try too.
Beck makes a choking sound. “Did he just—“
