"Well." Taylor leaned back, satisfied. "I’m getting you a flag."
Hudson shot her a pointed look.
"Fine." She grinned. "But I am telling mom."
Hudson dropped his head to the table with a grunt.
"Relax, I’m kidding." She picked at her arugula for a second. "But—don’t run from it, okay? Real connection is worth the risk." She didn’t look at him when she said it. "Not everyone leaves, Huds."
Hudson didn’t answer, he just stared at his pizza.
He knew she wasn’t only talking about Shaw.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ELLIOT
Two years after Selection
The hospital roomsmelled like antiseptic and something floral that was trying too hard to cover it up.
Elliot sat in the chair by the window, watching his mother sleep. The illness had whittled her down—thinner, paler, something even more fragile than the woman who'd raised him. Machines beeped in steady rhythm, tracking things Elliot didn't want to think about.
He'd been here for three hours. His father had been here for ten minutes before excusing himself to "handle some calls." That was forty minutes ago.
Elliot checked his watch. 1647 hours. He'd landed at Reagan at 1200, made it to Walter Reed by 1330. His CO had put him on two weeks of leave, no questions asked. Elliot had gotten on the first flight out of Ramstein without thinking about what waited at the other end.
Home. The word didn't fit anymore. Maybe it never had.
His mother shifted in her sleep. Elliot leaned forward,then stopped himself. The nurse had said she was stable, that the surgery had gone well and she’d wake up when she was ready. There was nothing Elliot could do to speed up the process.
Control what you can. His father's voice. Which was awfully close to becoming Elliot’s voice too.
The door opened. Elliot straightened per instinct—spine rigid, shoulders back—as soon as he registered who it was.
General Anthony Shaw appeared composed as always. Pressed uniform, perfect posture, expression that gave absolutely nothing away. He was sixty-three but carried himself like a man twenty years younger, age just another thing he refused to surrender to.
"Elliot." His father's voice was level and measured. "You made good time."
"Sir." The title rolled off his tongue automatically. Elliot had tried calling him "Dad" once when he was seven. The correction had been swift and absolute.
His father shifted to the other side of the bed, eyes moving across the monitors the way they’d move across a tactical readout.
"Dr. Mehta says the surgery went as expected. They got the mass. Clean margins. She'll need chemotherapy, but the prognosis is favorable."
Elliot nodded.
"Recovery will take time," his father continued. "She'll need to stay here for observation, then likely a rehabilitation facility before she can return home."
"How long?"
"Four to six weeks. Possibly longer." His father's jaw tightened fractionally—the only outward sign that any of this affected him. "I've arranged for the best care available. Dr. Mehta is one of the top oncologists on the East Coast."
Of course he had. General Shaw didn't accept anything less than the best, even in a crisis.Especiallyin a crisis.
"That's good," Elliot said.
His father's gaze cut to him, cold and assessing. "You look tired."
