A corner of his mouth twitches. “Didn’t mean it to be.”
Behind him, Beck strides past with a grin that’s far too big for someone with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his arm.
“Battle scar,” he announces proudly when he catches me looking. “It’s just a graze. I barely felt it.”
Jace snorts from behind him. “You cried.”
“I did not.”
“You asked if it was going to leave a mark.”
“I was concerned about symmetry.”
Despite everything, a laugh breaks out of me—short, startled, almost hysterical—but it loosens something in my chest. The sound makes Ryder’s eyes soften as he looks back at me, like he’s memorizing it.
Addison appears at my side again, peering up at Ryder. “You look like hell.”
“Good morning to you, too,” he replies dryly.
She glances down at Julian, her expression melting instantly. “And you,” she coos, reaching out to brush a finger against his cheek. “You have no idea how close you came to losing your father.”
Ryder arches a brow. “I’m standing right here.”
Addison meets his gaze without blinking. “I know.”
Something unspoken passes between them: respect, gratitude, and maybe acknowledgment.
Ryder shifts Julian slightly, then looks back at me. His voice drops, just for us. “You’re safe. Both of you. I swear it.”
I believe him, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we’ve survived the worst of it.
The noise fades eventually. Not all at once, but slowly, like the world deciding it’s done demanding things from us. The engines shut down, radios go quiet, boots stop crunching against gravel, and what’s left is the soft, exhausted aftermath of survival.
Ryder doesn’t let go of Julian the entire walk back to the house.
I notice it in the way his arm never loosens, how his hand stays spread wide and protective over our son’s back, like the weight of him there is the only thing tethering him to the ground. I walk beside them, my fingers laced through Ryder’s free hand, anchoring myself the same way.
Inside, the house smells faintly of antiseptic, gun oil, and cinnamon—always cinnamon, as if Ryder carries it with him wherever he goes. Someone has already turned the lights low, another has made sure the doors are locked and the alarms reset. This family doesn’t do chaos; they do control.
Ryder leads us straight to the bedroom. The door closes behind us with a soft, final click, and the silence inside feels sacred. He lowers Julian into the middle of the bed first, then eases himself down beside him with a wince he tries, and fails, to hide.
“Hey,” I scold immediately, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. “Don’t even try to pretend you’re fine.”
“I didn’t pretend,” he mutters. “I stated a fact.”
I give him a look that would make lesser men fold.
Ryder exhales, the tension draining out of him in a way I haven’t seen before, and lets his head fall back against the pillows. “Okay,” he concedes. “I’m not fine, but I’m alive.”
“That’s not the same thing,” I counter, already tugging his boots off, my hands shaking now that the danger is past. “And you don’t get to scare me like that and then act casual about it.”
His eyes stay on me the whole time. “You can scold me all you want. Just don’t ask me to regret it.”
I pause, my hands resting on his shin. “I won’t. I just wish you didn’t have to pay for it with your body.”
He reaches for me then, pulling me down so I’m sitting against his side. His arm comes around me, solid despite the stiffness, and I let myself lean into him, my head resting against his shoulder.
Julian stirs between us, makes a small, sleepy sound, and Ryder’s hand instantly moves to soothe him, thumb brushing gently over his tiny chest.
