12. Rowan #3
"Bullshit." Miles straightened. "You're scared my family will convince me to choose safety over justice. They'll close ranks around me and leave you out in the cold."
"They won't do that? Maybe they're right."
"They might try. That's what families do." Miles stepped closer. "But that doesn't mean they'll succeed."
I shook my head. "Miles, look around. Look at what you have here. These people would burn Seattle to the ground before they'd let you get hurt. That's not something you walk away from for some damaged ex-agent."
"Is that all you think you are?"
The question forced me to confront what I'd been avoiding. "I think I need this investigation more than you do. Justice is all I've had. I don't have someone I—" I stopped myself before the words could escape.
"Someone you what?"
Someone I love. The thought hit hard, stealing my breath. I loved Miles McCabe. It wasn't only wanting him or needing his tactical partnership. I loved him with the desperate intensity of someone who'd forgotten how to feel anything beyond professional obligation.
And love made people selfish. It made them endanger the person they claimed to protect.
"Someone I care about," I finished weakly.
Miles was quiet for a moment, studying my face. "Rowan, do you think I'm here because I feel sorry for you?"
"I think you're here because you have survivor's guilt about Iris, and I offered you a way to do something about it."
"And after we kissed? After I let you see me break down over surveillance violations? After I brought my family to meet you?" Miles plunged ahead. "What do you think this is all about?"
I couldn't answer. "I'm not good at this," I whispered.
"At what?"
"Wanting someone more than I want to protect them. I don't know how to love without trying to control the risk."
Miles reached out, placing his palm against my cheek. "Maybe start by trusting that I'm capable of making my own choices about acceptable risk."
"Even when those choices could get you killed?"
"Yes." His thumb traced my jawline. "Rowan, I've watched my brothers choose danger every day. Loving them never gave me the right to make different decisions for them."
"So, what happens after? After we bring down the people who killed Iris and find Rook and Hendricks."
A grin spread across Miles's face. "That's a long way down the road."
"But it matters," I whispered.
"Then hear this: it's been four years since I let anyone in. I've chosen you."
Matthew called from the living room. "Miles, Rowan, we need you in here."
We settled back into our chairs, and Miles reached for my hand.
The day wore on with tactical planning. Marcus had filled three pages with organizational charts, and Michael's phone buzzed with responses from federal contacts.
James cross-referenced jurisdictional authorities, while Alex mapped digital security requirements.
They assigned me roles I'd never expected—liaison with surviving Bureau contacts, consultant on federal bureaucracy, and the resource person who understood how investigative agencies actually functioned versus how they claimed to function.
Ma McCabe, quietly observing while tactical planning accelerated, finally spoke again. "James, what's the legal framework for civilian consultation with federal agencies?"
"Depends on the agency and nature of consultation," James replied. "If they classify it as witness protection with expert advisory roles, there's significant precedent. Especially if the consultants have relevant professional credentials."
"Which we do," I said. "Miles's therapeutic expertise and my federal background."
Ma McCabe nodded as if it confirmed something she'd been calculating. "So officially, Miles and Rowan are consulting experts under federal protection. Unofficially, they continue investigating with family support and resources."
"That's the framework," Marcus agreed. "Legitimate cover and professional oversight, but operational independence within defined parameters."
I caught the phrase within defined parameters and recognized the compromise—not unlimited freedom, but not restrictive custody either. Negotiated autonomy that acknowledged both professional necessity and personal safety.
"Parameters such as?" Miles asked.
"No solo operations," Michael said immediately. "No contact with sources without backup. Regular check-ins."
"And family notification of operational plans," Ma McCabe said with maternal authority. "I need to know my son isn't planning anything stupid without telling someone."
Miles looked around the table at faces united by affection and professional concern. "Those parameters are acceptable."
"And Rowan?" Ma McCabe turned to me. "You understand what you're agreeing to?"
"I understand that I'm not working alone anymore," I said. "That means I'm accountable to the team."
"Good." Ma McCabe smiled. "My boys don't do anything halfway. If you're standing with Miles, you're standing with all of us."
They were adopting me—not only as Miles's chosen investigative partner, but into a family that solved problems together.
"What about Miles's practice?" Matthew asked quietly. "He can't see clients while this is active."
Miles spoke up. "I've already cancelled this week's appointments. I told everyone I had a family emergency, but I won't hide the truth. When this resolves, I have to tell them someone monitored their sessions, and some of them will never forgive me."
"You didn't know," Alex said.
"Doesn't matter. I promised them confidentiality. I failed to protect it." He stared at his hands. "The state licensing board will probably open an investigation."
Marcus looked up from his legal pad. "We'll handle the licensing issues when they arise. Right now, your safety is the priority."
Charlie chose that moment to wake from his post-meal nap, stretching luxuriously before padding over to investigate whether the afternoon's conversations had produced any dropped food. He made the rounds of everyone's legs, tail wagging.
Ma McCabe spoke up again. "There's one more thing I have to say. Dinner. Sunday dinner, next week. All of you."
"Ma," Miles started, "if the situation is still active—"
"Then we'll have Sunday dinner with enhanced security protocols," she said firmly. "Crisis or no crisis, our family eats together."
I thought about my own family—scattered across continents, connected by obligation rather than affection, gathering only for funerals and milestone birthdays.
The idea of weekly dinners and choosing to maintain connections despite busy schedules and competing priorities was both foreign and intensely appealing.
"You'll come?" Ma McCabe asked me directly.
"If you want me there."
"I want you there."