All these years, and it was still there.
Something hot and fiercely guarded loosened in Jen.
She didn’t want a story that burned bright and brief.
She wanted this with Wyatt.
The kind of love that didn’t end when the war did.
39
Wyatt lay in the dark,Jen’s warmth pressed against his side, her breathing slow and even.
He should be sleeping. His body demanded it—stitched thigh, bruised ribs, the bone-deep exhaustion from the last seventy-two hours.
But he didn’t want to miss this. Not a second of it.
The weight of her hand over his heart. The way she’d pressed her cold feet against his calves when they’d climbed into bed—like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He’d watched her tonight—in his mother’s kitchen, at his family’s table, with Ellie in her lap—and something had quietly, permanently rearranged inside him.
This was what he wanted. Not the crisis. Not the adrenaline.This. Her breathing in the dark. The weight of her against him. The possibility of tomorrow.
His phone rang, the sound cutting a clean rupture through the silence.
He knew before he answered. The way you always knew when a phone rang at this hour.
“Sarah?”
His sister’s voice was tight. Professional. The voice she used when things had gone wrong.
Every muscle in his body locked down. The man holding Jen disappeared. The operator took his place.
He sat up.
Jen stirred beside him, already awake. “What happened?”
He looked at her. At her sleep-soft face and the fear already forming in her eyes.
“Akilov escaped.”
40
“We lost him.”Sarah didn’t waste breath. Her voice came through all clipped edges and control. “The transport was hit on Route 34 about an hour ago.”
His stomach lurched—like a misstep in the dark—as he crossed the bedroom, Sarah’s words in his ear. He pulled black cargo pants and a t-shirt from the closet.
“They used a semi, Wyatt.” Sarah blew out a breath. “Rammed the convoy and rolled it.”
A picture formed whether he wanted it or not—steel screaming, glass exploding, bodies thrown hard against restraints. He yanked his clothes on.
Fuck.
“They cut Akilov out with power tools. It was a clean job. Both guards are alive, but critical.”
“Professionals.”
“Uh huh. Through and through.”
