Chapter Thirteen
The Ridge was quieter than usual. Not peaceful—Ezra had learned there was a difference—but quieter. The kind of quiet that hummed under your skin, like a wire stretched too tight.
It had been a month since the farmhouse.
Thirty-one days since gunfire lit up the woods and blood hit the dirt and Ricky had lain in his arms and bled.
He hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but he had nightmares about that moment.
Vivid nightmares that had his heart beating from his chest, sweat pouring from his body, and him sitting up in bed gasping for air.
Ricky knew. He was always there to murmur the right words, to stroke his skin, and pull him back into the bed, wrap him in his strong arms, and stop him from shaking.
They’d won that night. But every night Ezra faced a different outcome.
Because victory had teeth. And because life was never easy, and shit happened in the world whether you were a good person or not, the threat wasn’t over. Far from it.
The Ridge’s comms were riddled with updates—coded bursts from Kai, intercepted pings from burner phones out of Chicago, whispers from a safehouse in Virginia.
The Albanian syndicate hadn’t folded. They were just regrouping.
Shifting. Digging in for something bigger.
More strategic. They wanted a foothold in the States, and they'd picked their battlefield.
It was going to be a long game, that’s for sure.
Ezra stood at the northern overlook and watched the sun starting to set over their land.
The air was crisp, the sky brushed with violet and fire.
Below, the Ridge buzzed with activity—training rotations wrapping up for the day, supply runs finishing, staff organizing dinner and drones being stored away for the night.
He sighed and glanced at his comm unit, remembering Blake’s latest update from the med center. Marsh was out of the woods physically, but emotionally?
A damn wreck.
They’d tried everything—physical therapists, trauma specialists, even a former SEAL who now ran a rehab center in Montana. Marsh had scared five of them off. Fired two and nearly broke one’s nose when they pushed too hard, barely escaping a lawsuit.
Blake said the problem wasn’t Marsh’s body. It was his will. He didn’t want to learn how to live with one leg. He wanted the one he lost back, and no amount of titanium or pep talks could fix that.
Ezra dragged his hand through his hair, jaw tightening.
He was tension personified. He’d been running himself ragged for weeks—organizing intelligence with Bateman, checking on Sophia and the other kids, training new recruits, making sure Ricky had everything he needed to heal and process and stay upright.
And then there was the house.
Their house.
The bluff they’d claimed had turned into a construction site overnight.
Apparently, when money was no object—and when the crew knew better than to argue with Riley or Dev—foundations were poured, steel frames raised, and windows ordered with glass so thick you could probably try to shoot someone through it and have to watch them walk away.
Okay, so that was a reality. It was bulletproof, Ezra had ordered it specially.
It was real now.
They were building a life.
He hadn’t seen Ricky since early afternoon. And that wasn’t like him. He left his vantage point and went to find his man.
Ezra found Blake just outside the comms room, a cup of coffee in one hand and a grim expression on his face.
“Hey,” Blake said, “you seen your other half lately?”
Ezra frowned. “He was with me after lunch, sorting insulation specs.”
Blake raised a brow. “Well, it’s nearly dinner, and he’s not back. Could be nothing—might’ve wandered off toward the build site again. But with that shoulder injury and your track record of ignoring logic when you’re in love...”
Ezra was already moving.
He jogged across the Ridge, boots pounding against the path, dodging a drone technician and a pony pulling an empty cart and what looked like a bag of marshmallows sticking out of a saddlebag (he didn’t want to know).
The air shifted as he neared the edge of the bluff, that familiar pull in his chest dragging him toward the building site.
And then he saw it.
Soft light coming from the corner of the house. As he got closer, he saw a mattress. On the deck of the future master bedroom.
Soft music floated on the breeze from a small speaker. A fire in a brazier crackled nearby. A bottle of champagne sat in a bucket with two glasses beside it. Plates of food—and probably real food if the silver warmers over the top were anything to go by—waited beside cloth napkins.
And in the center of it all... Ricky. His Ricky
He wore jeans, a soft gray tee, and the kind of smile that made Ezra’s knees wobble.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Ricky said, extending a hand. “Dance with me?”
Ezra stopped. Just ... stopped.
He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
For all the danger, the pain, the shattered nights and barely healed wounds—this man still found a way to make magic out of ruin.
“You did all this?”
Ricky grinned. “I had help. The neighbors loaned me a pony and cart to lug this stuff over. I brought hot chocolate for later, but can’t find the marshmallows.”
Ezra had an idea where those were. “Blake made sure the pizza didn’t burn. And Marsh, well, Marsh didn’t punch me in the face for using the Ridge’s Wi-Fi for a playlist, so I call that a win.”
Ezra took his hand, let himself be pulled into Ricky’s arms. They swayed in a slow circle as the last light of day bled into stars.
“I thought I lost you,” Ezra murmured.
“You didn’t,” Ricky said. “You never will.”
****
The mattress was soft beneath his back, a cocoon of fleece and clean cotton. Firelight flickered beside him, casting Ezra in gold and amber as he moved—slow, methodical, teasing. Bastard.
Ricky groaned, half-laughing, half-dying. “Ez, I swear to God, if you go any slower, I’m gonna have to explode.”
Ezra smirked, stretched out beside him like he had all the time in the world. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is when I’ve been fantasizing about your hands on me for four goddamn weeks.”
Ezra hummed, fingers trailing down Ricky’s ribs, over the curve of his hip. “I’ve been touching you. Feeding you. Tucking you into bed. Taking care of every inch of you.”
“Yeah, and doing a damn good job of not getting me off,” Ricky grumbled.
Ezra’s laugh was low and warm. He leaned in, brushing his nose along Ricky’s jaw. “You’re alive, we’re home, and no one’s trying to kill us. Forgive me if I want to enjoy every second.”
Ricky tilted his head, nudging him closer until their lips met, soft and open and so full of heat it made his toes curl.
Ezra kissed like he fought. With focus. With heart. With a kind of reverence that always left Ricky breathless.
He rolled them gently, hovering above, his dark curls falling forward to tickle Ricky’s cheek. “Still think I’m going too slow?”
Ricky arched up. “I take it back. I take it all back. Just—don’t stop.”
Ezra didn’t. He slid inside with a groan, hands cradling Ricky’s hips, movements tender and deep. Every push and retreat felt like a promise, every kiss like an answer to a question Ricky hadn’t dared ask.
They moved together, building a rhythm that was unhurried but unstoppable. A wave rising, rising, rising—
“I love you,” Ricky whispered, fingers threading through Ezra’s. “I love you so fucking much.”
Ezra smiled against his throat. “You always get talkative when you’re about to come.”
Ricky gasped a laugh. “You bring it out of me.”
Ezra shifted, changed the angle just enough to make Ricky moan, his whole body arching. “That’s better.”
“I swear—if you don’t finish what you started—”
“Ricky, baby, I am the finish line,” Ezra whispered with a wicked grin.
And just like that, the tension snapped. Ricky came hard, Ezra’s name on his lips, stars in his eyes. Ezra followed with a low groan, holding Ricky tight, burying his face in the crook of his neck as they rode it out together.
Silence fell, broken only by their breaths and the soft crackle of the fire.
Ezra kissed his shoulder, lips lingering over a bite mark from earlier. “You okay?”
“I’m ... spectacular.”
They lay in a tangle of limbs and contentment, the stars above spinning slow and wide.
After a while, Ricky turned his head, watching the firelight dance in Ezra’s eyes. “You remember what you said in Albania? About how you’d learned to walk into the dark because someone had to?”
Ezra nodded slowly.
“That night. That moment.” Ricky swallowed. “You were the first thing I held onto when I wanted to let go. You were my ... anchor.”
Ezra’s hand found his. “As you were mine.”
They were quiet a minute more, then Ricky said, “Danger Close.”
Ezra looked at him, puzzled. “What?”
“You know, when you call in artillery or airstrikes so close to your own position that there’s a real risk of getting hit. You do it anyway—because it’s the only way to survive.”
Ezra’s gaze softened. “That’s us?”
Ricky nodded. “Yeah. We got too close. Let ourselves be known. Be vulnerable. And it could’ve destroyed us.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No,” Ricky said, eyes shining. “It saved us. Because when it came down to it—you didn’t run. You aimed for me. And you pulled me out of the fire.”
Ezra pulled him in close, forehead to forehead.
“I’d do it again,” he whispered.
“I know,” Ricky breathed.
The fire burned low, the stars wheeled above them, and the Ridge became their sanctuary.