33. Coming Home
33
COMING HOME
~JESSICA~
T he first thing I become aware of is sound—a deep, rhythmic humming that wraps around my consciousness like a blanket, drawing me slowly toward wakefulness. The melody is unfamiliar yet soothing, vibrating against my ear with gentle insistence. The second is warmth—not the feverish heat of infection, but the steady, comforting warmth of another body against mine.
I drift in this liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, reluctant to fully emerge from the cocoon of comfort surrounding me. Pain hovers at the edges of my awareness, kept at bay by what I assume are powerful painkillers, but present enough to warn against sudden movements. My body feels heavy, distant, as if temporarily disconnected from my will.
The humming stops briefly, replaced by the gentle rustle of paper, then resumes—the sound vibrating through the chest I'm apparently resting against. Beneath these immediate sensations, I become aware of a mechanical counterpoint—the steady, rhythmic beeping of medical equipment, the soft hiss of what might be oxygen, the distant hum of climate control systems.
With considerable effort, I force my eyelids to open, blinking against light that seems too bright despite its apparent dimness. The world slowly resolves into focus—white ceiling, indirect lighting, the clinical gleam of medical equipment arranged with precise efficiency around a bed I don't recognize.
I shift slightly, testing the limits of my mobility, and feel the arms around me tighten fractionally in response—not restricting, merely adjusting to accommodate my movement while maintaining support. The subtle pressure draws my attention to my position—cradled against someone's chest, head resting in the hollow of a shoulder that fits my cheek with surprising comfort.
The scent registers next—sandalwood and cedar, old books and expensive whiskey, with underlying notes of something medicinal that suggests recent proximity to antiseptics or hospital environments. The unique olfactory signature is unmistakable despite my compromised state.
Marcus.
I tilt my head slightly, straining to see his face without fully dislodging myself from the surprisingly comfortable position. He's reclined against what appears to be a hospital bed, modified to accommodate both patient and visitor with uncharacteristic concession to comfort. His silver hair catches the light as he looks down at the book resting on his lap—something leather-bound and substantial, pages yellowed with age, text in what appears to be Italian or perhaps Latin.
The sight is so incongruous with my previous interactions with the formidable Alpha that I find myself momentarily stunned into continued silence. Marcus Harrington—calculating strategist, ruthless businessman, pack Alpha with presence that commands rooms without effort—reading quietly while holding me with gentle care I wouldn't have believed him capable of before these past days.
The humming pauses as he turns another page, his thumb stroking the aged paper with the reverence of someone who genuinely appreciates the physical artifact as much as the content it contains. The gesture is surprisingly intimate, unexpectedly humanizing—a glimpse of the man beneath the carefully constructed exterior he presents to the world.
I realize with sudden clarity how little I actually know about him—about any of them, really. For all the intensity of our interactions over these past days, for all the vulnerability I've shown and the protection they've offered, I've made remarkably little effort to learn who they are beyond their most obvious characteristics.
What does Marcus enjoy beyond strategic manipulation and pack leadership? What does Bastian think about when he's not serving as physical protection? What dreams might Knox harbor outside his technological genius? What softness might exist in Rook beyond the violence he wields with such precision?
These men have crashed into my carefully constructed isolation, have offered connection I've reflexively resisted even while craving it, have seen me at my weakest and most vulnerable—yet I've barely scratched the surface of who they are beneath the roles they've assumed in relation to me.
The humming stops abruptly, replaced by expectant silence that draws me fully into the present moment. I look up to find Marcus watching me, silver-gray eyes sharp with awareness despite the gentleness of his expression. He's known I was awake for some time, I realize—has been giving me space to orient myself, to process my surroundings without immediate demands.
"Welcome back," he says softly, voice pitched lower than usual—whether from extended silence or consideration for my likely headache, I can't determine.
I open my mouth to respond, but only a dry croak emerges, my throat feeling like it's been scoured with sandpaper. The sensation triggers fragmented memories—screaming in the forest, giving commands over gunfire, swallowing rain and blood and fear as chaos erupted around me.
"Don't try to speak if it hurts," Marcus advises, slipping a bookmark between the pages of his book before setting it carefully on the small table beside the bed. He reaches for a bottle of water equipped with a flexible straw, positioned within easy reach but outside my line of sight until now. "Small sips. Your throat sustained some damage."
I accept his assistance without protest, allowing him to hold the bottle while I draw cool water through the straw. The first swallow is painful enough to make me wince, but the second goes down more easily, soothing parched tissues with blessed relief. I take several more careful sips before signaling enough with a slight nod.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Marcus says as he returns the bottle to the side table, the phrasing sending an odd shiver of recognition through me—though I can't place why those particular words feel significant.
"How—" I begin, then pause to clear my throat before trying again, voice emerging as a raspy whisper rather than my usual tone. "How long was I out?"
"Thirty-six hours, give or take," he replies, settling back into his previous position with careful movements that minimize jostling my apparently injured body. "You've been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last twelve, but this is the first time you've been coherent enough for actual conversation."
The information is startling despite its clinical delivery. A day and a half, lost to unconsciousness. Twelve hours of partial awareness I have no memory of experiencing. My fingers twitch with the instinctive urge to check my body for damage, to catalog injuries and assess recovery timelines, but even that small movement sends pain radiating up my arm.
"Knox," I rasp, memories of the forest returning in fragmented flashes—Knox collapsed on mud-soaked ground, his sister performing CPR with desperate intensity, gunfire erupting around us as I fought to protect them both. "Is he?—?"
"Alive and recovering," Marcus confirms, understanding my truncated question without requiring elaboration. "Thanks to you and his sister, though both of you nearly died in the process of saving him."
Relief washes through me with unexpected intensity, momentarily overwhelming even the pain and disorientation of my current state. I remember the absolute stillness of Knox's body, the absence of pulse beneath my searching fingers, the gray-blue tinge to his skin that spoke of oxygen deprivation and imminent death.
"What happened?" I ask, trying to piece together the fragmented memories into coherent narrative. "The building—there was something in the air. People collapsed. Knox's nose started bleeding and then..."
"A targeted chemical agent," Marcus explains, his tone shifting subtly toward the analytical precision I've come to associate with his strategic assessments. "Designed to render unconscious rather than kill—for most people, at least. Security footage shows it was released through the ventilation system approximately four minutes before you and Knox entered that wing of the building."
I process this information, trying to understand the implications. "Why didn't it affect me the same way? I felt dizzy, maybe slightly disoriented, but nothing like what happened to Knox."
"Allergic reaction," Marcus answers, mouth tightening with what might be anger or concern. "The compound itself was relatively mild—meant to incapacitate temporarily without causing permanent damage. Most people woke within hours with nothing worse than headaches and mild confusion. But Knox has specific chemical sensitivities that interacted catastrophically with the agent."
"He had an allergic reaction," I repeat, struggling to reconcile this seemingly mundane explanation with the life-or-death struggle I witnessed. "To the knockout gas or whatever it was?"
Marcus nods, a subtle dip of his chin that somehow conveys both confirmation and controlled rage at the situation. "Combined with his psychiatric medications, it created a perfect storm of toxic interaction. Instead of merely rendering him unconscious, it triggered cardiac arrest."
A shiver runs through me despite the warmth of the room and Marcus's continued proximity. So close. We had come so terribly, irrevocably close to losing Knox—brilliant, manic, unexpectedly gentle Knox—to what was essentially a tragic combination of bad luck and biological vulnerability.
"I didn't know," I whisper, a strange guilt creeping through me despite the irrationality of feeling responsible for something I couldn't possibly have predicted. "About his allergies. About any potential vulnerabilities."
"Why would you?" Marcus counters reasonably. "It's not information we advertise widely, for obvious security reasons."
I frown, suddenly realizing how little I know about any potential medical issues affecting the four men who have become so central to my existence over these past days. "Do the rest of you have allergies or medical conditions I should know about? In case something like this happens again?"
The question emerges more vulnerable than intended, revealing concern that extends beyond mere tactical assessment—genuine worry about their wellbeing rather than simple strategic planning. Marcus seems to recognize this shift, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.
"Rook has asthma that only manifests under extreme exertion or specific environmental triggers—primarily certain industrial chemicals and some types of mold," he explains, the information delivered with the precision of someone who has memorized medical files for tactical purposes. "Bastian has mild hearing loss in his right ear from an explosion several years ago, though he compensates so effectively most people never notice."
He pauses, seeming to debate whether to continue, then adds, "And I have a heart condition—congenital, managed with medication, but potentially problematic under certain circumstances."
The casual revelation of personal vulnerability—from Marcus especially—catches me completely off guard. This isn't tactical information sharing; this is trust, extended without demand for reciprocation, without expectation of advantage gained. Simple truth offered because I asked, because he's chosen to allow me this insight into potential weakness that could be exploited by someone with less honorable intentions.
"Thank you," I say softly, the gratitude extending beyond the information itself to the trust it represents. "For telling me."
He acknowledges my thanks with a slight nod, neither dismissing its significance nor drawing additional attention to what clearly represents a deliberate choice to lower certain barriers between us.
A thought suddenly strikes me, triggered by his earlier explanation. "You said I helped save Knox? Along with his sister?"
"Sera arrived just in time to perform proper CPR," Marcus confirms. "But you were the one who got Knox away from the contaminated building, who recognized something was wrong and took immediate action to remove him from further exposure. And from what we've been able to reconstruct, you defended them both against significant armed opposition while he was unconscious and she was focused entirely on resuscitation efforts."
The fragments of memory sharpen—running through the rain, supporting Knox's increasingly limp form, watching his collapse with horror I couldn't afford to fully process in the moment. The desperate search for a pulse, the frantic call to Marcus cut short by the storm. The pink-haired woman with Knox's mismatched eyes arriving like avenging fury, taking over CPR with practiced efficiency while I fought to keep approaching attackers at bay.
"I didn't know what to do," I admit, shame heating my cheeks despite knowing I had acted as effectively as possible given my limitations. "When his heart stopped. I never properly learned CPR. I tried, but I didn't know if I was helping or making things worse."
"But you tried," Marcus points out, the simple observation carrying no judgment, only acknowledgment of effort in impossible circumstances. "Many wouldn't have."
I shake my head slightly, wincing at the pain the small movement triggers. "I should have known better. Should have taken those classes seriously instead of skipping them whenever possible."
Marcus's expression shifts toward something more contemplative, his eyes studying me with the particular intensity that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and truly seen. "That wasn't the real reason, was it?"
The question catches me off guard—not just its content but the quiet certainty with which it's delivered, as if he already knows the answer but wants me to acknowledge the truth myself. I consider deflecting, falling back on the defensive mechanisms that have served me so well for seven years, but find myself unexpectedly unwilling to maintain those particular walls between us.
I shake my head slowly, the movement careful to avoid aggravating whatever injuries lurk beneath bandages I can feel but haven't yet seen. "No," I admit softly. "It wasn't."
He waits, neither pushing for elaboration nor offering to let the matter drop. Simply present, attentive, creating space for honesty without demanding it—a skill few possess but that he seems to have mastered to perfection.
"CPR classes meant confronting death," I finally continue, the words emerging slowly, drawn from places I've avoided examining too closely for years. "Not just as concept but as immediate possibility. As something that could happen to me, to someone I cared about, at any moment. And after the alley, after what happened there..." I swallow hard, fighting against the tightness in my throat that has nothing to do with physical injury. "I couldn't handle facing that particular fear head-on. Not when I was already barely holding myself together most days."
The confession feels like both surrender and release—acknowledging weakness I've denied even to myself, fear I've converted to anger and defensiveness rather than processing directly. But strangely, voicing it aloud doesn't bring the shame or vulnerability I've anticipated. Instead, it feels like setting down a burden I've carried far too long, like creating space for something new to grow in soil previously poisoned by secrets.
"Your aversion was completely understandable," Marcus says after a moment, his voice carrying that slight accent that emerges when he's being particularly honest or emotional—the subtle tell I've begun to recognize as indication of genuine rather than calculated response. "Trauma creates protective mechanisms that aren't always rational but serve essential purposes in survival and recovery."
His hand moves to cover mine where it rests on the blanket, the contact gentle but grounding—anchoring me to the present moment rather than allowing me to drift back into painful memory. "And everyone survived, which is what matters. Knox is recovering well. You're both going to be fine, despite everyone's best efforts to the contrary."
The attempt at humor, rare from the typically serious Alpha, draws a surprised huff of laughter from me that immediately transforms into a wince as pain flares across my ribs and abdomen. The reaction doesn't escape Marcus's notice, his expression shifting toward concern tinged with what might be guilt.
"How badly am I injured?" I ask, suddenly acutely aware of the various pains radiating throughout my body now that the initial disorientation of waking has passed. "I remember being shot, but it's all fuzzy after that."
"Three gunshot wounds," he confirms, his clinical tone returning as if creating emotional distance from the facts he's relating. "None hit vital organs, fortunately. One grazed your left side, another passed through the muscular tissue of your right thigh, and the third caught your right shoulder—again missing bone and major blood vessels, though it did cause significant tissue damage."
He pauses, seeming to weigh how much detail to provide. "You lost a considerable amount of blood before we could get you stabilized, which is the primary reason for your extended unconsciousness. There are also numerous contusions, minor lacerations, and two cracked ribs from what appears to have been hand-to-hand combat with at least one of your attackers."
The inventory of damage is both better and worse than I expected—better in that nothing sounds permanently debilitating, worse in that the cumulative effect explains the profound weakness and discomfort currently limiting my mobility. I've been injured before, of course—it's an occupational hazard of hunting those who would just as eagerly hunt me—but never quite this extensively all at once.
"Where are we?" I ask, finally registering that our surroundings, while clearly medical in nature, don't match any hospital room I've ever seen. The space is too personalized, too secure-feeling, too comfortable despite its clinical functionality.
"The medical section of the lake house's underground level," Marcus replies, confirming my suspicion that we're not in any standard healthcare facility. "We deemed it safer than remaining on or near campus, particularly given the likelihood that Elliott and potentially Senator Caldwell could exercise influence over local medical establishments."
The mention of those names—the two remaining attackers on my list, the orchestrators of both my original assault and these recent attacks—sends a chill through me despite the room's comfortable temperature. "The men who attacked us in the forest—they were Elliott's people?"
Marcus nods, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "The survivors confirmed as much, though Elliott himself remains carefully distanced from direct involvement, as usual. They were specifically targeting Knox after his earlier confrontation with Elliott, but your presence provided an unexpected opportunity they couldn't resist taking advantage of."
"Survivors?" I repeat, the word triggering fragments of memory—the desperate firefight in the rain, bodies dropping around me as I fought to protect Knox and his sister, the Alpha I'd beaten nearly to death before using his own weapon against him.
"Two remained alive when we arrived," Marcus confirms, something in his tone suggesting the number might have been higher had I not been involved. "They've provided certain useful information before being...released."
The careful phrasing makes it clear the "release" was likely neither gentle nor conducive to future threat from these particular individuals. I find I have no desire to press for details, content in the knowledge that immediate danger has been neutralized even if the source remains active.
"I should let you rest," Marcus says suddenly, making a slight movement as if preparing to disengage from our current position. "You need to recover your strength, and my presence is likely preventing proper sleep."
"No," I say quickly—too quickly, revealing more dependence than I'm entirely comfortable acknowledging. I force myself to moderate my tone before continuing. "Please. Stay. If you don't mind. I... I think I'd prefer not to be alone right now."
The admission costs me something—pride, perhaps, or the carefully maintained illusion of complete self-sufficiency I've cultivated for seven years. But the relief of not facing immediate solitude with my injuries and memories outweighs the discomfort of allowing this particular vulnerability to show.
Marcus settles back into position without comment, neither drawing attention to my momentary neediness nor dismissing its significance. He simply accepts, adjusts, accommodates—as he has since our paths first crossed in that rain-soaked alley seven years ago.
We sit in surprisingly comfortable silence for several minutes, the only sounds the gentle beeping of medical equipment and our synchronized breathing. My mind drifts, cataloging sensations rather than focusing on any particular thought—the solid warmth of Marcus's chest against my cheek, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with antiseptic, the distant hum of the lake house's systems ensuring our security and comfort.
A thought surfaces suddenly, triggered by fragments of my dream that now rise to conscious awareness. "I think my father is dead."
The words emerge without planning, without tactical consideration of what revealing such knowledge might mean. Simply truth, offered raw and unfiltered, as the realization solidifies into certainty within me.
Marcus doesn't respond immediately, the silence stretching between us for several heartbeats. When he finally speaks, his voice carries careful neutrality. "What makes you say that?"
I hesitate, struggling to articulate the source of my certainty without sounding completely unhinged. "I saw him. While I was unconscious. He looked older, with more silver in his hair. He said things he never would have said when I knew him."
I don't elaborate further, unwilling to share the details of those impossible words of pride and affection that had never materialized in life. Some things remain too personal, too precious to expose to external analysis, even from someone I'm beginning to trust.
"He said next time, maybe in the next life, he'd be a better father," I continue instead, focusing on the parts I can bear to voice aloud. "One who focused on making me happy rather than building his empire. And he said..."
I pause, recalling words that now carry new significance in light of my current circumstances.
"He said he didn't like you—all of you—but that 'you did good in my absence.'" A small, sad smile tugs at my lips despite the grief beginning to seep through the emotional numbness of awakening. "That sounds exactly like something he would say, actually. The backhanded compliment, the grudging acknowledgment."
Marcus remains silent, neither confirming nor denying my assessment. But his silence itself is confirmation enough—if my father were alive, if this were merely a stress-induced hallucination with no basis in reality, he would say so. The absence of reassurance speaks volumes.
"I wish I could have seen him again," I whisper, the words emerging more vulnerable than intended. "Just once. So he would know that everything he did wasn't in vain. That I survived. That I'm still fighting."
Marcus's arms tighten slightly around me, the gesture offering comfort without attempting to dismiss or minimize the loss. "He knew," he says simply. "Trust me on that, Jessica. He always knew."
The use of my first name—rare from him, who typically defaults to formal address or occasional use of "Nightshade" since Bastian introduced the nickname—lends weight to his assertion. This isn't empty reassurance; it's specific knowledge, offered with the certainty of someone who possesses information I don't.
I consider pressing for details—how Marcus might know my father's thoughts, what connection might have existed between them, what history they might share beyond my limited understanding. But exhaustion is settling into my bones with increasing weight, and some truths can wait for stronger moments.
Instead, I find my gaze drawn to the book resting on the bedside table—leather-bound, well-worn, clearly treasured. "What were you reading?" I ask, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than mere conversation.
Marcus follows my gaze, something softening in his expression as it lands on the volume. "Dante's Inferno," he replies, a hint of something almost self-conscious entering his tone. "In the original Italian. I find the rhythm of it... soothing, despite the subject matter."
The revelation is unexpectedly charming—this glimpse of personal preference, of appreciation for literature and language beyond its utility. "You read a lot?" I ask, genuinely interested in this aspect of him I've never considered before.
"When time permits," he acknowledges. "Historical texts primarily. Philosophy. Poetry from various traditions. Some modern literary fiction, though I find much of it lacking the depth of classical works."
I absorb this information, adding it to my slowly expanding understanding of who Marcus Harrington is beyond his role as pack Alpha and strategic mastermind. "I'd like to read with you sometime," I say before fully considering the implications of such a request—the continuing connection it suggests, the shared future it presumes. "If that wouldn't be imposition."
Rather than looking startled or refusing, he smiles—a genuine expression that transforms his usually serious features, making him appear younger, more approachable. "We have all the time in the world, sopravvissuta ," he says, the Italian word flowing naturally from his tongue.
"What does that mean?" I ask, caught between curiosity about the translation and awareness of the presumption hidden in his response—that time stretches before us, that future connection is assumed rather than merely possible.
"Survivor," he translates, the single word laden with meaning beyond its literal definition. "One who endures. One who remains when others fall."
The word settles around me like a mantle, both acknowledgment of past strength and expectation of continued resilience. I consider it, testing how it feels against my self-conception, against the identity I've constructed from the broken pieces left after the alley.
"What if we don't?" I ask softly, the question encompassing fears I usually refuse to voice aloud. "Have all the time in the world, I mean. With Elliott and Caldwell still out there, with whatever else might be coming for us..."
"Then we make time," Marcus answers without hesitation, the simple response carrying absolute conviction that brooks no argument from circumstance or fate. "We create it where it doesn't exist. We claim it from those who would take it from us."
The certainty in his voice should seem arrogant, perhaps even delusional given the dangers surrounding us. Instead, I find it oddly reassuring—this unshakable belief in our capacity to forge our own path despite opposing forces, to create future rather than merely surviving present.
And strangely, I believe him—not from na?veté or desperate hope, but from evidence accumulated across seven years of continued existence against all odds. This man has already made time for me once, has already reached into death's grasp and pulled me back when fate and biology and circumstance all suggested I should have perished in that alley.
If anyone can create time where none exists, can forge future from the jagged shards of broken present, it's Marcus Harrington—and perhaps, by extension, the unlikely family gathering around me despite my resistance, despite my damage, despite my unwillingness to acknowledge what they're collectively offering.
My pack.
The words surface from my dream, from Elizabeth's impossible encouragement and my father's grudging endorsement. Not acknowledgment of established fact, but recognition of emerging possibility—of connection I've denied myself for too long, of belonging I've convinced myself I neither deserved nor desired.
As consciousness begins to recede again—pain medication and lingering weakness drawing me back toward healing sleep—I allow myself to rest more fully against Marcus's solid presence. Not fighting the support he offers, not maintaining artificial distance out of habit or fear, but simply accepting connection as the gift it is rather than the liability I've trained myself to perceive.
Tomorrow will bring renewed challenges, continuing threats, difficult decisions about Elliott and Caldwell and the vengeance I've pursued for seven years. But for now, in this moment between waking and sleeping, I allow myself to exist within the protective circle of arms I'm beginning to trust, within the potential future I'm starting to believe might exist beyond mere survival.
For now, that feels like enough—like more than I've allowed myself to hope for in longer than I can remember. Like the first tentative step toward something I'd convinced myself wasn't meant for someone as broken, as damaged, as fundamentally altered as I've become since that night in the alley.
Like possibility, fragile but persistent, blooming in soil I'd thought permanently poisoned by trauma and hatred and loss.
Like coming home.