Shadowfell Ranch - One month later.
Snow dusted the peaks above Pike National Forest, a white crown fading into the blue dusk. From the main house of Shadowfell Ranch, the sound of music and laughter spilled into the cold.
The place still looked like a fortress to Stone’s eye—reinforced beams, glass that could stop a rifle round, security layered into every wall—but tonight it breathed like something else.
Shadows softened under strings of white lights, garland trailed along the banisters, and a pine tree cut from the forest stood proud in the corner, dressed in ornaments that didn’t match but somehow belonged.
Rip and Boston had been bickering over who’d strung the lights crooked until Winter shut them both down with one snarky comment.
Sage had taken over the old sound system, switching from carols to a blues station that made half the room groan. Micah wandered past with mugs of mulled cider, dropping one into Stone’s hand without asking.
Even Viper looked almost human, stretched out in a chair by the fire, glass of whiskey in his grip and the kind of quiet around him Stone hadn’t seen in years.
At the far table, Real leaned in over a chessboard, trading moves with Azrael. The two of them looked at ease in a way that only came with trust and years beside each other—murmured comments, the brush of a shoulder when one leaned in, a kind of shorthand no one else could quite crack.
Law and Black had shipped out on a quick mission three days ago, both promising to be back before Christmas Eve.
Sage hadn’t said it out loud, but Stone had caught the way his green eyes lingered on the door every time boots hit the porch. Micah masked it better, but when Black’s name came up, his mouth tightened before he forced it into a smile.
It wasn’t Nevada’s Nightfall Drifters Ranch.
This was Shadowfell Ranch—different woods, different air.
Quieter. Heavier. The kind of place where men like them could disappear if they chose.
Stone let the noise wash through him: the laughter, the crack of kindling in the hearth, the rustle of snow brushing off boots as another pair of men came in from the cold. A year ago, this much peace in one room would’ve felt impossible. Now it felt earned.
And across the space, by the tall windows, Dave sat at the long table, dark hair threaded with silver catching the glow of the tree.
The firelight and pine-scented air wrapped around him like he belonged here, more than he ever had in war rooms or briefing halls. His shirt collar was open, shadows tracing the line of his throat, the broad shoulders that still carried too much but somehow looked carved for Stone alone.
Stone felt the pull low and sharp—the kind of awareness that started in his chest and burned all the way down.
Even across the room, he could pick up the faintest detail: the way Dave’s hand curled around the glass, steady, deliberate; the way the corner of his mouth almost, almost hinted at a smile.
The man looked easier tonight, shoulders a little less burdened, eyes sharper for it. He lifted his glass when he caught Stone’s gaze, a small acknowledgment that said more than words ever could.
Stone lifted his cider in return, heat spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the drink.
For the first time in years, the horizon didn’t look like a battlefield. It looked like a future, bright and wide open.
The noise of the room blurred, colors softening around the edges until there was only him. Dave. His gravity. His anchor. His.
An hour later, the night was still as they left the main house, boots crunching on the cobblestone path winding through the trees. Cold stung Dave’s skin, breath ghosting in the air, but he didn’t mind—not with Stone beside him.
The house appeared after a bend, windows glowing over gardens now buried under snow. Raised beds slept beneath frost, waiting for spring when he’d plant. Santa Barbara had left him little time for soil and seed, but here, maybe, he could.
The house stood warm against the pines—three bedrooms, an office, and the study he’d turned into a library from the start. Not a fortress like California, but a home: timber beams, stone hearth, modern security hidden under woodsmoke and pine.
Inside, he stepped into the hallway. Heat wrapped around him, the crackle of fire threading through the low hum of the system. He shrugged off his coat and crossed the thick rug, hisgaze catching on the open library door. Books lined the shelves, spines worn from years of use. Gardens, books, quiet—for once, it all felt like it belonged to him.
Stone had even suggested they take up fishing, hiking, some light traveling—and yoga of all things. And to Dave’s own surprise, he was actually looking forward to all of it.
The California estate was still his, with Caldwell running it for the President. Dave trusted Will with it, trusted him enough to finally set the weight down. Here, in this place, his only duty was to breathe.
Stone came in behind him, the door shutting off the last of the cold. He set his coat over the back of a chair and moved into the firelight like he was made for it.
Dave’s gaze caught on him before he could look away.
