Page 46 of Crown of Ash

"He's dead." Marcus echoed the words with a stark simplicity. There was no triumph in his voice, no relief either yet,

"Reaper?"

Cass stood in the doorway, his weapon lowered but his gaze still fixed on Drakov's lifeless body. His expression was unreadable, a mask that Andre didn't attempt to decipher.

"That's for Jaz," Cass said finally, his voice heavy with unspoken emotions. "And for every year before Jaz that this should've happened and didn't."

"Thank you." Marcus's voice wavered on the second word, a crack in his composed facade.

"Don't thank me." Cass held Marcus's gaze a moment longer, then his eyes drifted away, toward the window, toward the emptiness beyond.

Zain appeared in the doorway then, his breath ragged from the exertion of the stairs. His weapon was already lowering the moment he saw Marcus upright and talking. "Ghost wants confirmation everyone's accounted for. And Sable's asking if he needs to come find you personally, because apparently that man does not do subtlety when he's worried."

"Tell him I'm fine." Marcus's mouth twitched, the first real thing close to a smile since the door had opened on Drakov holding a gun to his head. His words were a soft exhale, a whisper of relief that seemed to echo in the silence of the room. "Tell him thank you. All of them."

"Tell him yourself. He's already halfway up the stairs." Zain's voice was a low rumble, his words punctuated by the distant thud of heavy boots on wooden steps.

True to Zain's words, Sable was, in fact, already halfway up the stairs, his broad figure casting long shadows in the dimly lit hallway. He didn't stop moving until he had visual confirmation with his own eyes, a brief, wordless once-over that ended in a single nod. His gaze was sharp, piercing, but there was an unspoken relief in it before he turned to secure the hallway without another word.

Andre helped Marcus to his feet. His legs held, which seemed to surprise them both a little. A soft chuckle escaped Marcus's lips, a sound that was half relief and half disbelief.

Downstairs, the house had transformed from a target, to a crime scene, to something in between. Bodies were zipped and logged by people who did this work without flinching, their faces impassive masks as they moved with practiced efficiency. Radios crackled with static, calling out all-clear from every floor in overlapping, businesslike voices. Bell's people worked with the same unhurried competence they'd done all night.

Sovereign stood near the front door, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze swept over the whole operation with a particular satisfaction that only came from having split skulls in a job well done. His folk were working with his to get all fourty previously lost victims out of their restraints and out of the house so that they could recieve medical attention and move on the the next phase of their rescue.

Andre stood in the middle of it all and realized, slowly, that there was nothing left for him to do. No warrant to serve. No case to build. No six-year weight sitting in his chest telling him there was still one more thing standing between him and the rest of his life.

"Hey." Marcus's hand found his, their fingers intertwining in a silent promise. His touch was warm, grounding, a beacon in the chaos that surrounded them. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere." Andre squeezed his hand once, grounding himself in the feel of Marcus's skin against his own. "Just realizing I don't have anywhere left to be tomorrow except with you."

"Good." Marcus pulled him toward the door, toward the cold night air that promised freedom, the lake beyond it shimmering under the moonlight, whatever came next. "That's the plan. We get these people out of here, into the hands of people who can help them heal… and we just… live."

Andre smiled, and for the first time in years, it was real and free of weight.

Chapter 24

Marcus took the wheel himself, the familiar grip of the leather steering wheel grounding him in a reality that felt too surreal. He couldn't trust anyone else to drive tonight, not when this was the one decision he had control over. The city lights blurred past them, a kaleidoscope of neon colors reflecting off the rain-slicked streets.

Andre, his body slumped against the passenger seat, slept for most of the journey. His head rested against the cool glass of the window, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that Marcus found himself syncing his own breaths to. He let Andre sleep, knowing that for once, there was no operation dictating their schedule. Nothing to weigh them down. Andre could wake up on his own terms now.

The thought was so foreign that it took Marcus a full mile to wrap his head around it.

He pulled up outside a converted three-flat building, its newly familiar silhouette looming in the darkness. He'd stood on this very sidewalk once before, paralyzed by indecision and unable to make himself climb the stairs. Tonight was different. Tonight, he ascended those stairs without a moment's hesitation, Andre's hand fitting perfectly into his own. The warmth of Andre's touch was a lifeline as he unlocked the door and led them both into a kitchen that had once felt alien but now held a sense of familiarity.

"You're doing the thing," Andre said, his voice heavy with sleep as he dropped his keys onto the counter. His eyes, sharp and observant despite his exhaustion, watched Marcus with an intensity that spoke volumes about how well he knew him. "The counting thing. What are you counting now?"

"Nothing important," Marcus replied, leaning against the cool marble of the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He could feel Andre's gaze on him, probing, searching for answers.

"That's not an answer," Andre challenged, his tone gentle but firm.

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his hair as he forced himself to confront the question head-on instead of deflecting it as he'd been conditioned to do over the past six years.

"I'm trying to remember the last morning I woke up without a single thing I needed to do about Drakov," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The words felt strange on his tongue, like he was speaking a foreign language. "I can't find one. Not since before you and I split. Every day for six years, some part of my head was doing math about him, even on the good days. Especially on the good days, if I'm honest, because good days always felt like something I hadn't earned yet."

"And now?" Andre prompted, his voice soft in the quiet kitchen.

"Now there's nothing to calculate." Marcus's voice was a low murmur, his gaze fixed on Andre with an intensity that made the air between them thrum with unspoken emotion. He looked at him, really looked, the way he hadn't let himself in longer than he wanted to admit. His eyes traced the familiar lines of Andre's face, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the tired but determined glint in his eyes. "No countdown. No debt. No version of tomorrow where I lose you again. Just tomorrow. An actual, ordinary tomorrow."