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Wells hovers to my right. Even in my peripheral vision, it’s indisputable that he’s antsy, his feet shifting in an eagerness to swoop in and shield me from the hurt here, but I think we both know this is one more swamp I need to trudge through.
I drink in a harsh breath, my lungs burning with the effort. “But seeing their value, knowing how important they are to me, that was the selfless act of a father. So, thank you. I’m honored you’re mine.” With that, I throw my arms around the man who gave me life and spent his searching for me—never giving up.
He squeezes me back, his tone thick and murky. “Your father did a spectacular job preparing you, Ivy. Your abilities are astounding. The honor is all mine.”
Your father.Like his simpleof course,that speaks volumes.
I release him, and my eyes frolic over his face with a wistful gape, noting his kindhearted vulnerability. “He did,” I agree, glancing between the hospital room housing the man who gave me everything he was and the man who wants to hand me all he’s built. “He taught me so much more than I ever realized. But there’s something to be said about nature. I think you’ve given me more than I realized too. I look forward to learning from you, Daniel.”
He nods, a reverent smile coasting up his ruddy cheeks as I cross over to Wells, who immediately laces his fingers with mine, ushering me to my own hospital room—withDr. Evil.
My injuries aren’t serious. My ribs, while severely bruised, aren’t broken. It will still be several weeks until they and my sternum are healed, but in an odd turn of events, the good doctor redeems himself by assuring Wells I can resume sexual activity once my headache is gone, according to my own pain threshold. So, that’s a go light.
There’s not much they can do for the concussion, aside from observation, so once I’m discharged, the guys escort me to anapartment they’ve been residing in. It’s luxurious, as expected from four millionaires, but sterile and devoid of the coziness of our gothic mansion, which has my stomach flip-flopping like a hooked fish.
They all insist home is wherever the five of us are, and I can’t deny how that plucks my heartstrings. In the spirit of old times, they blatantly refuse to answer my questions about what will happen to Deidre and Maureen, about whether I’m still in danger, about where we’ll live, and about when Wells and I will be inducted into KORT.
They claim the vagueness is because I need rest, but I’d guess it’s due to so much still dangling in the unknown. I don’t push it.
Wells orders us Chinese food. We eat and laugh and squeal over hilarious fortunes through a meal that shuns the grim days still saturating us.
Eventually, Wells dims the lights and carries me to the couch to cuddle me on his lap. The other three huddle up around us, on the couch and floor, showering me with smiles and snacks and my choice of rom-coms. I’m not sure life will ever feel settled or stable, but here, in the shelter of my husband’s embrace, surrounded by men who provide me with the deepest sense of family, and appeased by the knowledge that my parents are safe and well, my tattered soul is emboldened. It might have been hellfire to get here, but I wouldn’t want to be torched with anyone else.
It’s been three weeks since Wells scooped me out of the carnage. Three weeks since I reunited with the guys, forgave my mother, and bridged the gorge separating me from the man who shares my blood, Daniel O’Reilly.
Three weeks since I curled up on my father’s lap and told him how grateful I was for all he gave me.
And three weeks since he passed away.
The call came in the dark of night. Nightmares played behind my closed lids when the phone rang to extend another. He had suffered another stroke around three a.m. This one claimed his lifeimmediately. The doctors surmised that the stress—of being taken, of my mother being held captive, and of not knowing what my fate was—all mounted to more than his already-strained nervous system could handle.
But my mother insists it was his final heroic act of bravery for our family—letting go because he knew I was safe and where I belonged. Like Eleanor Healy, my birth mother, did. I think she’s right. My father had been enduring his bodily prison from that stroke since last April because he couldn’t leave us until he knew we were okay. He’s finally free.
My mother shared with me the letter he’d left her in his living will—the one that explained his plans for me and what her role was to be in his absence. He’d been so thorough with the inheritance documents and various other details on how she should go about addressing it in order to push me toward Wells. Some of it had pissed her off, which made me chuckle. We might not share DNA, but my mother unwittingly transferred a spark to me.
The most heartwarming part of his words, though, were the ones reserved for my husband. He’d told my mom that he loved Wells like a son, trusted him, and was rooting for the two of us to find our way to each other because he couldn’t imagine any man loving and caring for me better. He’d gone on to say that even if that didn’t happen, Wells, Liam, Ty, and Gage were always to be respected for the way they protected me.
My mother admitted there were moments she wasn’t Wells’s biggest fan simply because he was the face of all she was losing, whether that was fair or not. But in spite of their jagged beginnings, she asked Wells to deliver the eulogy at my father’s funeral. To say Wells was honored would be an understatement. He’d been as broken as me the morning of my father’s passing, but true his stoic nature, he held himself together, catering to every need my mom and I had. Until that request was extended.
The second my mother shared my father’s words, his love, and her hope that Wells would speak on behalf of that relationship, myhusband dropped into the chair beside me. A ragged breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face in his hands. Moments later, he dragged me onto his lap, holding me through what I knew was a vanquishing grief for us both.
My father’s funeral was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. People came from all over the world to honor him. I always knew my father was a man who had impacted others in a soul-stirring way, but the stories from patients, from members of The Order, and from neighbors and colleagues were humbling, to say the least. The vocal crowd—which included Rena, Ryker, and Axel showing up for Wells and me—served as a salve on a day that was fraught with ache. It was a standing-room-only, not-a-dry-eye-in-the-place kind of event.
And my husband eulogized the fuck out of him.
Wells was on point, charismatic, and authentic, noting traits about my father and sharing stories that tinged my version of him in a deeper shading.
It was the most beautiful brokenness.
Celeste, Ty, Liam, and Gage shrouded my mother and me in a protective cocoon while we both awed at Wells gifting us with another piece of the great Dr. Thomas Kingston.
His ending words still ring in my head.“Some might say the measure of a man is by the lives he changes. Some would argue it’s by the mark he leaves on those closest to him—his family, friends, colleagues. And still, others would insist that the truest measure of a man is by his ability to stare into the face of impossible situations, consider every angle, and selflessly lead those under his care through the carnage. Tom was many things to me—my dear friend, my mentor, and my father-in-law—so I can attest to his superiority in all of those areas. And as I peer out at his beautiful wife and daughter and the bursting crowd of patients and friends, colleagues and proteges, I’m in awe. It’s staggering, the impact one man’s life had on so many. No matter how we measure a man, Dr. Thomas Kingston was the gold standard.”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I fell more in love withWells as he towered over that podium, honoring the man who had loved us both.
In light of our loss, KORT postponed both our induction and the sentencing of Deidre and Maureen. This isn’t the United States judicial system. There will be no trial. They’ll both be executed, along with all the people involved. The sentencing is simply the method I choose and who does it. Apparently, as both a seat-holder and the one whose life they targeted, that’s my right—or privilege, if you will. I’ve chosen to compartmentalize the gruesomeness of that honor and not dwell on it until necessary.
Which is today.
