Never in my lifetime did I think I’d see every division of our world—every soldier, sniper, ghost, and monster—stand still long enough to attend a wedding of all things. No radios barking orders. No gunfire in the distance. Just music and the clink of glasses and the low murmur of people who’ve seen too much pretending—for one night—that they haven’t.
I tug at the front of my uniform, smoothing out the creases from travel and tension, fingers lingering on the row of medals that never feel like they belong to me. I scan the crowd outof instinct more than interest, mapping exits, studying faces, noting hands too close to waistbands and drinks. Old habits. But I know the real reason I’m so focused, and it’s not because I’m looking for a threat.
I’m looking forher.
Not that I have any right to expect her to be here. After everything that’s passed between us—hell, everything that hasn’t—I know better than to assume she’d come. I’ve given her every reason to stay away, pushed her to the edges of every line I’ve drawn, then blamed her for standing there. Still, some quiet, idiotic part of me hoped she would. That she’d want to see what my world looks like now. That she’d want to be part of it.
That she’d want to stand somewhere near me.
But she’s not here.
Not that I blame her.
Hell, even King showed up—and the man looks like a six-foot-five mountain trying to blend in with polite society, the same old shirt tied around his head like a makeshift turban no one has the courage to question. He stands near the dessert table, eyeing a cupcake as if it insulted his ancestors, broad shoulders hunched as if the entire concept of frosting personally offends him.
“King! It’s not bloody snack time!” I call out, watching his head swivel like an owl, eyes darting from the cupcake to me and back again. I drag a tired hand down my face. “We need to find some seats.”
Typical.
My brain wanders as I wait for him to shuffle his oversized boots in my direction. The waves crash against the shore in steady rhythm, reminding me that time is moving whether I like it or not. Maybe it was the last mission that made her shut down. I didn’t let her run point—kept her perched on a ridge, calling shots from behind the scope. She didn’t complain, didn’t flinch. She knew I needed her there. Hell, she’s our most valuable asset.
So what changed?
Was it the solo op I blocked her from? The one Larkin’s been whispering about like it’s a fucking rite of passage? The mission she thought would finally prove she didn’t need anyone, least of all me, watching her six?
Or maybe it’s the elephant in the room—the fact I found out I have a son. A boy I never knew existed. A boy just a few years younger than her. That alone should be enough reason to keep her miles away from me. I’ve seen the way she looks at me when I pretend it’s easy, when I joke about it. She knows it isn’t. She knows I’m a mess of guilt and too-late apologies.
But it doesn’t explain the ache.
It doesn’t explain why I still think about the first time I saw her—head down at the end of the formation line, looking like she didn’t belong in a room full of killers, and somehow owning it anyway.
“New batch of recruits,” Larkin mutters beside me, voice clipped and professional as ever. Her blonde ponytail is pulled tighter than her jaw, hands fanning out a stack of profiles like a deck of bad decisions. “Seaborn took down two smaller factions last month and established new leadership in the UK. We’re getting the overflow—the orphans, the outliers. Take your pick. I’m sending the rest to Alpine.”
“My team’s fine the way it is,” I grumble, flipping through the stack of laminated profiles she hands me. Each file is a story, a life they’re about to erase. No more last names. No more birthdays. Just callsigns and falsified records. Ghosts walking in borrowed skins.
Just like I did once.
“Three soldiers with god complexes and short fuses don’t make a team,” she counters, pushing open the heavy steel doorleading to the recruitment field. The hinges groan in protest, the sound echoing down the corridor like a warning.
The second I step onto the concrete, the world narrows. Heat slams into me, bright and unfiltered. Rows of soldiers stand at attention, chins tilted up, boots lined with surgical precision. The sun’s unforgiving out here, baking the tarmac, painting harsh shadows beneath their chins, and still not one of them flinches. It’s a beautiful thing. Clean. Controlled. This is why I chose this life—why it chose me. Out here, everything has a place. A purpose.
“Alright, listen up!” I bark, my voice cracking through the air like a whip. Their backs somehow go straighter, eyes snapping to attention. Good.
“Don’t go easy on ‘em, Cap,” Larkin hums beside me, sunglasses hiding whatever amusement is in her eyes. “Pick your stray. I know how possessive you get.”
She’s not wrong. Once you’re on my team, you’re not just a number. You’re mine. And in this world, that’s not a threat—it’s a promise. I’ll die for you. I’ll kill for you. I’ll crawl through hell to drag you back if I have to. You become the closest thing I’ll ever have to family.
I flick my eyes down the line, flipping through the next file without much interest—until something stops me cold.
A small figure at the end. Shorter. Slighter. Barely taller than the rifle strapped to their back. Every soldier in this line looks like they could tear someone in half, except her. Their shoulders are all squared aggression, trained brutality. She looks like a misprint. A mistake. Something softer that survived the sorting process.
I don’t need the file in my hand to know who she is.
I already know.
“Number twelve, forward,” I command.
And just like that, she moves. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Like she was born to follow my orders, her boots are silent as she steps out, her posture perfect, cap pulled low over familiar sapphire eyes. My stomach sinks. The world tilts a fraction of an inch.
