"He told me to run. I told him to shut up."
A short, rough sound that might be a laugh. "Good. He needs that. Bishop is compartmentalized. He carries the weight of the world and never lets anyone help him carry it."
"He's not carrying it alone anymore."
"I see that." Frost pushes off the doorframe. "You kept him alive when he was bleeding out in a hole in the ground. In this house, that makes you family."
He turns to leave.
"Frost?"
He pauses, looking back. The scowl softens just a fraction. "Yeah?"
"Thank you. For coming for us."
"We always come for our own." Simple. Final. "Get some sleep. You look like hell."
He closes the door softly.
I curlup in the chair, resting my head on the mattress beside Kade's hip. The heart monitor is a lullaby. The rise and fall of his chest is the only reality that matters.
I close my eyes.
For the first time in days, I don't see shadows. I don't see threats.
I see a fortress. A giant with silver eyes. A pixie hacker with better toys than the NSA. A doctor who bosses around commandos and calls them idiots with unmistakable love.
And I see a future I'd give anything to be a part of.
FIFTEEN
Epilogue
KADE
Six Weeks Later
The ocean sounds angry today.
Big, gray rollers smash against the coastline below, sending spray high enough to mist the windows of the house. Wild and untamed. Violent and beautiful. Exactly why I bought this place. It sits alone on the cliffs with nothing but the Pacific stretching to the horizon and no neighbors close enough to matter.
I stand on the deck, leaning against the railing. My left arm is stiff, the skin tight and pink where Doc Summers pulled the stitches out this morning.
"Range of motion looks good." She poked the scar tissue without sympathy. "You're cleared for PT. You can start lifting again, but if you rip that incision open, I'm stapling it shut without lidocaine."
I rotate the shoulder now, testing it. A dull, persistent throb—a reminder, not a warning. The strength is back. The sling is on the kitchen counter, hopefully for good.
I take a sip of coffee. Real coffee. High-end beans, ground fresh this morning. Not the instant sludge from the cabin.
We spent five weeks in the on-base guest quarters at Guardian HQ while Frost and the feds dismantled Black Helix. Safe. Necessary. But bringing her here—to my personal space, away from the wire and the patrols—feels like a different kind of milestone.
The sliding glass door opens behind me. I don't turn. I know the sound of her footsteps now.
Wren steps into the cold wind. She's wearing one of my hoodies, sleeves falling past her hands, hair loose and whipping around her face. She looks rested. The dark circles are gone. The haunted look has been replaced by something brighter.
"So?" She leans against the railing beside me, bumping her shoulder against my good arm. "What's the verdict? Did Skye give you the green light, or are you grounded for another week?"
"Cleared. Stitches are out. I can start lifting again."
