Epilogue
CELESTE
Three Months Later: Undisclosed Location, Montana
The cabin sits nestled against a backdrop of mountains, snow blanketing the surrounding forest in pristine white. Inside, the woodstove crackles, fighting back the February chill.
I look up from my laptop as the door creaks open and Ryan steps inside, snow clinging to his boots and melting in gritty puddles on the worn wood floor.
He shrugs off his coat, shaking off the cold, then hangs it by the door.
The wind’s still howling behind him, but he brings a quiet calm with him—steady, grounded.
But it’s his face that catches me.
The beard is new. Fuller. Thicker. It roughs up the sharp line of his jaw, making him look older, wilder. More untamed. As if shedding his old life permitted the man underneath to surface.
He catches me staring and arches a brow. “Too mountain man?”
I shake my head slowly, lips curving. “Too hot, actually.”
That earns me a low, satisfied grunt as he toes off his boots, crossing to me with snow in his hair and something in his eyes that has nothing to do with the storm outside.
“Supply run successful?” I ask, setting aside the financial reports I’ve been studying as part of my cover identity.
“All the essentials,” he confirms, crossing to drop a kiss on my forehead before unloading groceries onto the counter. “And news from Ghost.”
I straighten immediately, attention sharpening. “Torque?”
“Alive.” Ryan’s expression is complex—relief mixed with something grimmer. “Extracted three days ago from a private facility in Hungary. Condition critical but stable.”
“He made it,” I breathe, hardly daring to believe it after months of uncertainty. “What did they—”
“Don’t ask,” Ryan cuts me off, the shadow in his eyes warning me away from that line of questioning. “Just know that he’s safe now. Guardian HRS’s medical team has him.”
I understand the boundaries. Some details are better left unshared, especially regarding what happens to men like Torque in enemy hands. “And our status?”
“Unchanged for now.” Ryan begins putting away groceries. “Ghost recommends maintaining current protocols for at least another three months. Phoenix’s algorithm is still running security sweeps, though resource allocation has shifted primarily to other threats.”
Three more months of isolation, pretending to be Ryan and Celeste Davis to the few locals we interact with, and building our cover story one careful layer at a time. I should feel disappointed. Instead, I’m strangely relieved.
More time to figure out what comes next.
More time in this bubble we’ve created, away from the world’s complications.
More time with Ryan, learning who we are together when not running for our lives.
“Ghost sent something else,” Ryan says, reaching into his pocket. He withdraws a small USB drive, similar but not identical to the one that started this whole journey. “Information he thought you should have. Secured, obviously.”
I take it, turning it over in my hand. “What’s on it?”
“He didn’t specify. Just said your journalistic instincts might find it interesting.” Ryan’s expression gives nothing away, though I suspect he knows more than he’s saying.
Later, after dinner, I connect the drive to our secure, offline system. What I find makes my breath catch—evidence of three new deaths, officially ruled accidents or suicides. An analyst at the Pentagon. A programmer formerly employed by Northridge. A congressional staffer with security clearance.
All with connections to Phoenix. All with death patterns that match those I was investigating before this began.
In a separate file, a simple message from Ghost:
Phoenix is still operational. Resources are divided, but adapting. The hunt continues. Your work matters.
I sit back, staring at the screen, the implications washing over me. This isn’t over. It may never be truly over. The algorithm continues its silent calculations, its deadly executions. Ryan appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching me with those observant eyes that miss nothing.
“Your call,” he continues, crossing to stand behind my chair, hands resting on my shoulders with gentle pressure. “Ghost is giving you a choice. We can stay completely dark, focus only on our security. Or …”
“Or we can fight from the shadows,” I finish for him. “Use our ‘dead’ status as an advantage.”
His thumbs work small circles against the tension building in my neck. “It would mean additional risk. Controlled contact with trusted assets. Limited field operations eventually.”
“But we could make a difference.” I lean back against him, drawing strength from his solid presence. “We could help stop Phoenix before it evolves beyond anyone’s control.”
“We could,” he agrees, his voice neutral in a way I’ve learned means he’s letting me reach my own conclusions without influencing them. He’s always the tactician, even in personal matters.
I consider the options, weighing safety against purpose, comfort against conviction.
Three months ago, Celeste Hart died pursuing the truth about Phoenix.
That pursuit cost lives—Jared, Quentin, Zara, Lachlan.
Nearly cost mine and Ryan’s. And Torque, whatever condition he’s in now after months in enemy hands.
Can I walk away from that? Can I live peacefully in these mountains while Phoenix continues its silent, deadly calculations? While more people die from “accidents” carefully engineered to silence them?
“What would you do?” I ask, genuinely curious. “If it were solely your decision?”
Ryan is quiet for a long moment, his hands still on my shoulders. “A month ago, I would have said stay dark. Complete Ghost Protocol, focus on security, leave the rest to Cerberus and Guardian HRS.”
“And now?”
His eyes meet mine in the reflection of the computer screen.
“You’ll never be satisfied with just surviving.
Fighting for the truth isn’t just what you do—it’s who you are.
” His lips curve in that slight smile I’ve come to treasure.
“I’d rather fight alongside you than ask you to be someone you’re not. ”
The weight of his understanding and his acceptance of who I am at my core settles over me like a blanket. This man values certainty and control above all else and is willing to embrace the risks because he sees me.
Knows me.
“We tell Ghost we’re in,” I decide, reaching up to cover his hand with mine. “Cautiously, slowly, but in.”
“I already told him you would be,” Ryan admits, not looking remotely apologetic about presuming my answer. “We have three more months of silence and staying dark. Training begins when the snow clears.”
I should be annoyed at his presumption. Instead, I laugh. “You knew what I’d choose before I did.”
“I’ve been watching you chafe at inactivity for weeks.” He leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. “The investigative journalist in you was never going to stay buried for long.”
He’s right, of course. These quiet months have been necessary—healing, even. Time to process everything that happened, adjust to our new reality, and build something solid between us without the constant pressure of immediate danger.
But beneath the peace, I’ve felt it growing—that restless energy, that need to pursue truth regardless of the consequences.
The same drive that led me to Jared’s hotel room that night in D.C.
, that kept me digging even as the bodies piled up, that refused to back down even with professional killers on my trail, it’s still there.
Stronger.
Some things don’t die, even when you do.
“So what happens next?” I turn in my chair to face him directly.
“Ghost sends specialized equipment through secure channels. You’ll analyze the new deaths, map potential adaptations Phoenix might have made.
” Ryan leans against the desk, arms crossed—casual on the surface, but everything about him vibrates with lethal purpose.
“All while maintaining cover as the boring financial analyst and her slightly high-strung security consultant who moved to Montana for fresh air and quiet.”
“Ryan and Celeste Davis by day,” I say, cocking a brow, “ghost operatives by night. Sounds exhausting.”
“Challenging,” he corrects, mouth twitching. “But not impossible—with the right partner.”
Partner.
That word still slips under my skin like a touch—unassuming, intimate, and entirely deliberate coming from a man who didn’t even share beds, let alone missions, until the subway platform in D.C. turned both our lives inside out.
“Speaking of partners …” My fingers toy with the ring. It feels permanent now. Real. “You know this whole cover thing doesn’t need to be a complete lie.”
“Marriage?” His voice is low, eyes locked on mine. “For real?”
I nod, teeth sinking into my bottom lip.
His eyes flash—heat, hunger, possession. The kind of look that used to undo me when I was running. Now it roots me deeper.
I take a slow step forward. “So … Are you going to ask me?”
He pushes off the desk in one smooth movement, closing the space between us.
“You forget how this works,” he murmurs, his voice dipping to that register that pulls my body taut. “In this relationship, I lead. You follow.”
A flush climbs up my throat, but I hold his gaze. “Fine. Then ask me.”
“When the moment’s right,” he says, brushing his knuckles over my hip, slow and deliberate. “Assuming you’re not still tied up when it comes.”
My breath snags. “Tied up?”
That grin. Dark and knowing, edged with promise. “You said ‘Fine. Then ask,’ like a brat testing limits.”
“I wasn’t testing,” I murmur, lips twitching. “I was challenging.”
“Same thing,” he counters, pulling me flush against his body. “Which means you’ve earned yourself a refresher.”
“In what?”
“Obedience.” His voice drops, rough velvet over steel. “We’ve covered restraint before, but clearly, we need to take things up a notch.”
I tilt my chin, feigning bravado. “You planning to tie me up until I behave?”