11. Luna
Chapter 11
Luna
The storm gets worse after dark. The wind shrieks and the rain blows sideways, making the whole house shudder.
The power flickers once, then goes out for good.
I’m halfway to the fuse box with a flashlight when I realize it’s not the breaker.
We’re out.
I light the rest of the candles and get the kettle onto the woodstove to make a hot drink.
Sitting by the front window in the living room with my mug of hot chocolate, I watch the dark, stormy night. The walls creak, and the wind sighs under the eaves. It’s the kind of night that makes you feel like the house isn’t a shelter so much as a brave little ship in a deep, black sea.
Then I see them.
Headlights.
Far off, right at the edge of the tree line. Just… sitting there. Not moving.
A trickle of cold fear slides down my spine.
My heart picks up speed as I rise slowly. I check on Shay—still asleep—and grab a flashlight. Stepping outside, I pull the door shut behind me.
The wind bites, and my boots sink into the wet earth. I cross the yard fast, trying to stay in the shadows, heart thudding against my ribs like a warning bell.
But by the time I reach the edge of the barn, the headlights are gone—nothing but trees and wind and the distant bleat of goats from the lower barn.
I stand there a minute longer, flashlight in my hand, scanning the darkness.
With a sigh, I turn to go… and my boot catches in a rut slick with rain and half-melted snow. I go down hard on one knee, and my palm lands on something sharp. Glass? A jagged rock? It doesn’t matter. The sting hits instantly.
I hiss, cradling my hand as I scramble up. Blood beads along the base of my thumb, red and bright against the white of my flashlight beam.
Shaking, wet, and rattled to my bones, I return to the house, my body braced against the elements. Once inside, I grab a cloth from the drawer and hold it against my hand before checking on Shay, who’s still sleeping peacefully.
A minute later, a soaked Henry barrels through the kitchen door. “Where’s Shay?”
“On the couch,” I reply. “She’s okay. She wasn’t feeling great earlier, so I made her rest.”
He takes in my bedraggled state, and his eyes flicker to my hand. “You okay? What happened?”
I wave my other hand. “It’s nothing. Check on your wife. I think she needs her bed.”
Henry pauses for a moment as if he wants to say more, then exhales and makes a beeline for Shay. I watch through the open door as he gently lifts her from the sofa like she’s made of glass. Shay mumbles sleepily and burrows into him as he carries her upstairs.
It’s not just the way Henry carries her. It’s the way his entire body shifts. He’s not simply holding her; he’s anchoring her. Like whatever storm is outside, she’s his only priority.
Like love doesn’t have to be loud to be fierce.
I didn’t come here for love. Didn’t come for soft things or promises. I came to be safe. To be useful. To earn my keep and stay invisible enough not to be discarded.
But still.
Watching him look at her like that… like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched…
God.
I want that. I want that with my husband.
I want him to see me in the quiet and carry me without needing to be asked. Not because I can’t walk but because I’m worth holding.
It’s a dangerous thing to want like that. Because it means I have something to lose.
Sighing, I grab the first aid box and head upstairs, creeping past Henry and Shay’s closed door to my room. In the bathroom, I remove the cloth and run my hand under the cold water. Luckily, the wound isn’t as deep as I feared, and it’s no longer oozing blood.
I quickly clean and dress the wound before exchanging my wet clothes for a cozy sweatshirt and sweatpants.
I’m about to head back downstairs when my bedroom door opens and Angus looms on the threshold, windblown and dripping wet.
His gaze falls to my bandaged hand, and concern flickers in his blue eyes. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” I tuck my hand against my side. “I saw headlights and went outside?—”
His expression darkens and his eyes narrow as he steps into the room. “You went outside.”
It’s not a question.
I lift my chin. “Yeah. Briefly.”
His shoulders stiffen. “Alone?”
“Shay was sleeping.”
“You still went outside.”
“Well, you weren’t here.”
His voice drops. Low. Rough. “That doesn’t mean you go charging into the dark. Anything could’ve happened to you.”
“I wasn’t charging,” I say sharply. “I was checking. Because someone was watching this place. Shay was asleep, and no one else was here to do it.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Things are happening around here. Things that don’t feel like bad luck anymore.” He exhales hard like he’s trying to keep a lid on something boiling inside him. “You should’ve stayed inside, out of the way. You don’t put yourself in danger for this place.”
I straighten, heart hammering. “I’ve spent my whole life being told to stay out of the way. To not be a problem. To keep my head down so no one gets tired of me. If I stay,” I say, quiet but unshakable, “I help. That’s how I’ve survived.”
He shakes his head. “You should’ve waited for me.”
My temper sparks. “You think I haven’t been waiting all week?”
He flinches.
We both know I’m talking about more than what happened tonight. I’m talking about the space between us. The quiet that’s stretched longer each night since our wedding.
“You come home, take off your boots, eat dinner in silence, and sleep like your body’s here, but the rest of you isn’t,” I press on, heart thudding.
His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.
“I get it,” I whisper. “You didn’t sign up for someone who wants more. Who feels more. Hell, I never expected to want more. But I can’t keep pretending this is about paperwork when every part of me wants you to choose me. To fight for me.”
A gust of wind shakes the windowpanes, but the real storm is in the tense silence between us.
Angus closes the door, slow and deliberate, and prowls toward me, his flannel clinging to the hard lines of his chest, his blue eyes full of an intensity I’ve never seen before. “You think I haven’t wanted to touch you? You think I haven’t been lying in my bed wishing I could pretend I’m whole enough to give you what you need?”
My throat tightens. “Because of what happened in Kandahar?”
He turns and rakes a hand through his wet hair, pacing the edge of the room like the memory is still too big to hold.
“Tell me,” I whisper. “Let me in. Please. ”
Angus pauses, his tortured gaze capturing mine. For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore my plea. Then he releases a shuddering breath, and his shoulders drop. “Our team was deep in enemy territory, gathering intel on a high-value target, when we were ambushed. There was an explosion, and I woke up under a pile of debris. Beckett was in my unit. He should’ve left me. Mission protocol says you leave deadweight behind. I told him to do it. Told him to get the hell out and finish the job.”
His voice roughens, cracking open along the edges. “He didn’t. Dragged me out of that compound with bullets flying, fire everywhere. I was leaking blood like a busted pipe. I don’t remember much. Just pain. Smoke. The look in his eyes like he’d already written my name on the wall.”
I move toward him slowly, but I don’t reach for him yet. Not when he’s holding something this heavy.
“I coded twice,” he says. “Woke up strapped to a bed with a tube down my throat and a chaplain at my side, prepping my soul to return to its creator while preparing my body for storage.”
His eyes meet mine, and what I see there isn’t simply pain. It’s shame. Guilt. Bone-deep grief worn for so long that it’s become a second skin.
“I survived when I shouldn’t have. And when I got back…” He pauses, breath hitching. “Everyone was so damn happy I lived, but I didn’t feel alive. I couldn’t get warm. Couldn’t sleep without waking up in a cold sweat, thinking I was still trapped under that rubble while I listened to the screams of my friends dying.”
I whisper, “Is that why you pulled away after our wedding night?”
His throat bobs as he nods. “That night, with you… it was the first time I felt something real in years. And that terrified me.”
I take a small step closer. “Why?”
“Because I fucking lost everyone except Beckett that day!” he shouts, the words tearing out of him. “And if I let myself love you— really love you—and something happens…” His voice breaks. “I won’t survive it. Not again. I barely made it back the first time. I won’t— can’t —crawl out of that wreckage twice.”
I step in until we’re nearly touching and press my hand to his chest. “You’re not going to lose me,” I whisper. “Not like that. Not if I can help it.”
His eyes flicker—hope and fear and disbelief all tangled together.
“You’ve seen what the worst of the world can do,” I murmur. “But I’m still here, Angus. Solid. Breathing. Fighting for you. For us .”
A single tear tracks down his cheek.
I swallow hard and press my hand harder over his heart. “Don’t shut it down because it hurts. Caring for someone doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re brave enough to risk it.”
I pause, my breath trembling. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not unless the storm takes me—and even then, I’ll fight my way back.”
I meet his eyes, steady and sure. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to let me in .”
He looks at our joined hands like they’re the scariest thing in the room.
Then, finally, finally , he whispers, “I’m trying.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Then that’s enough.”
He lets out a breath like it’s been caged in his chest for years. When he pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my neck, it’s not with heat or hunger—it’s with the need for comfort.
I comb my fingers through his wet hair, murmuring soft words that mean nothing and everything as he shakes against me, wetting my neck with his tears. His arms tighten around me like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers if he loosens his grip.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says into my skin, the words muffled, aching. “Not the right way. Not with someone who matters.”
“You don’t have to do it perfectly,” I whisper. “Just let me stand beside you. Don’t push me away.”
He nods once against my shoulder, the motion jerky as if every part of him has been wound tight around pain and silence and the belief that he doesn’t get to have softness, and now it’s all coming undone.
He lets me hold him, lets me share the weight of all the things he’s never said. And for the first time since our wedding night, I feel him stay.
The storm outside rages on, but here in this room, we’re still. Tangled in grief and hope and something that feels dangerously close to love. And for the first time, I think maybe we’ll be okay. Not because everything’s fixed. But because he finally let me see the cracks.
Something profound flickers across his face when he pulls back, landing between us like a lightning strike.
And then he’s kissing me.
It’s not hesitant. Not graceful. It’s messy. Wild and unyielding like the storm raging outside.
His mouth crushes against mine, full of heat and frustration and something deeper he doesn’t know how to say yet. His hands slide into my hair, holding me there like I’m the gravity keeping him from flying apart.
I gasp into his mouth, and he takes it—takes all of it—like a man starved for warmth finally letting himself feel the fire. His tongue wraps around mine, hot and wet and wonderful. He tastes like rain and woodsmoke and grit.
I press closer, hands fisting in his flannel, pulling him to me because I want more. Need more. Because this? This kiss is different from every other kiss we’ve shared. It’s the kind of kiss that rewrites your DNA. A kiss that shatters and reshapes me in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
Angus pulls back a fraction, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. His voice is raw when he speaks. Hoarse. Like the words cost him something. “I walked into this marriage thinking I could keep my distance. Do the job. Keep the ranch. Keep you safe. But somewhere along the way”—his hands tighten slightly as he cups my face—“you stopped being the job.”
His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers. “I don’t know when it happened, but you’re mine. You’re the first person I look for when I walk into a room. The last thing on my mind before I fall asleep. You make this place feel like something more than duty and dirt and memories. You make it feel like home again.”
Angus takes my uninjured hand gently andslidesoff my wedding ring before I can object.
I blink, confused. “What are you doing?”
Instead of answering, Angus tips the band toward the light, his thumb brushing over the inside.
“Did you ever read the inscription?”
I frown as a flicker of memory surfaces—a flash of silver, a glimpse of something etchedinside the day he slipped it onto my finger.
“No. I—I forgot it even had one. I haven’t taken it off since you put it there.”
“Look.” He turns the ring so the overhead light catches the engraving inside.
Three words.
Wanted. Chosen. Seen.
They steal the breath from my lungs.
Not I love you —he wasn’t ready for that then. But this? This is something so incredibly poignant. Something I’ve spent a lifetime quietly aching for.
My throat tightens as I lift my gaze to his. “You saw me?”
He nods, emotions laid bare in his blue eyes. “From the start. I’m sorry it took me so long to stop fighting it.”
I don’t even realize I’m crying until he brushes a tear from my cheek.
His touch is featherlight as if he’s afraid I’ll break if he presses too hard.
“You don’t have to stay quiet to stay,” he says softly. “Not here. Not with me.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I didn’t come here for love,” I whisper. “But I found it anyway.”
He wraps his arms around me and kisses me again. Slower this time, deeper, sealing something between us. When he pulls back, he cups my head and presses it to his chest like the storm outside isn’t half as dangerous as the thought of letting go.
I nuzzle my cheek against his soaked flannel and close my eyes. For the first time in my life, I know what it’s like to be protected by someone who sees me. Someone who chooses me. Someone I’ve chosen back.
No contract. No conditions.
And that’s enough to weather any storm.