Chapter 52 #2
He pushed his cock into her, slowly and deeply. A single, ragged breath escaped him as he buried himself to the hilt. He was home. The feeling was so overwhelming, so right, tears pricked his eyes. He stilled for a moment, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet room.
And when he finally moved inside her, strong and present, he whispered her name like a prayer answered after too many nights in darkness. There was no fear left in him. Only want. Only love. Only both of them rediscovering what survived the desert.
He moved with a slow rhythm, each stroke a declaration, each retreat a promise to return. The pleasure built, a slow burn that ignited into an inferno.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust. The world outside the windows ceased to exist. There was only the sound of their breathing, the slick slide of their bodies, the frantic beat of their hearts.
When he reached his victory, one that was slow, hard-earned, and overwhelming, he collapsed against her, arms tight around her waist, face buried in her neck. A shudder racked his body, a release of pain and fear.
He lay exhausted, half on top of her, half beside her, his face pressed to her shoulder.
His pulse still thudded unevenly. Not from exertion, but from the overwhelming realization that he had just loved her like he never thought he’d get the chance to again.
“I thought I was broken,” he whispered into her skin.
Shannon slipped her fingers into his hair. “You’re not.”
He swallowed hard and kissed her collarbone. “You brought me back.”
“Dante,” she murmured, but he heard the tears in her voice.
“No,” he lifted his head enough to look at her, “you need to know. I didn’t fight for oxygen in that desert. I fought for this. For you.”
Her eyes softened. She kissed him, slow and sweet. “Then stay. Heal with me.”
He nodded against her lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The sheets were tangled, the air faintly humid from breath and skin and closeness.
Dante lay with Shannon tucked against his chest, her head resting just under his collarbone. Her breath was steady, legs drawn against his.
But then— knock-knock. “Hello in there. Do I need to override the lock?”
They both froze.
Shannon blinked, her voice a whisper. “It’s Jamie.”
“Of course it is.” Dante was already pulling back the covers.
Shannon rolled off the bed, put on her tee and tugged up her sweatpants. Dante pulled on his pajama pants, still slow and stiff around the abdomen, where the peritoneal catheter was healing. He moved to the doorway, exhaling once.
“Hold on,” Shannon called toward the door.
Dante buttoned the last button of his loose henley just before opening it. Jamison O’Reilly stood in the hallway—clipboard under his arm, warm tea in hand, as always. His expression was polite, but one brow arched with quiet amusement as he looked between them.
“I’m not judging,” he said dryly. “But I’m here to check on your ten p.m. PD exchange.”
Dante smirked as he walked over to the portable cycler unit. The machine was compact, resting on a cart Shannon already warmed up. The bags of dialysate hung nearby, ready.
Jamie leaned on the counter, watching with professional distance as Dante moved through the routine—cleaning the port with slow, practiced care. Sanitizing. Priming. Checking clamps. He nodded approvingly. “Nice technique.”
“Feels like defusing a bomb,” Dante muttered.
“Well,” Jamie said, “less chance of vaporization. But the stakes aren’t nothing.”
Once the line was connected, the machine beeped a soft, ready tone. Fluid began to cycle.
Jamie stepped forward and gently tapped the clipboard. “Also came to tell you—your name went active on the transplant list tonight.”
Dante looked up. Shannon sat down across from him.
“It’s official. UNOS has your file. It’ll take time, but it’s movement. In the meantime, we’re cleared to begin living donor testing.”
He glanced between them.
“Family. Friends. Anyone willing. We can start as early as tomorrow. With your permission, I’ll put out a company-wide memo.”
Dante looked down at the machine, the tube slowly filling. The rhythmic sound of fluid exchange. “I guess that’s best.”
He used to track terrorist cells by satellite. Now he was sitting in a quiet room, cycling sugar water through his abdomen to survive.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Jamie clapped him once on the shoulder. “You're doing everything right, Dante. One day at a time.” He headed for the door. “I’ll check labs in the morning. Get some sleep. Both of you.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Dante exhaled slowly. “Friends and family, huh?”
“I’ve got some calls to make.”
He gave her a tired grin. “You’re not testing.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you to keep flying,” he said. “If I take one of your kidneys, the Air Force will cut you off.”
She leaned across and kissed his cheek. “We’re going to make it through this.”
He rested his hand on the machine’s edge, then reached for hers. "Yeah, but I still want a second shot at making love without Jamie interrupting us.”
Shannon laughed—tired, real, and warm.
Miriam waited until Shannon stepped out to take a shower before she moved closer.
She pulled the chair up beside the bed and sat, close enough Dante could feel her presence without looking. For a moment, neither of them spoke. “You look thinner,” she said finally.
He smiled faintly. “You always start with that.”
“Because it’s always true.” She reached out to rest her hand over his. Her grip was warm. Steady. “But you’re here. That’s what matters.”
She took a breath. “Ian called me the day you were taken.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she said gently. “I sat in my office and listened to him explain what he couldn’t tell me. That’s a special kind of terror, Dante. The kind where your imagination fills in everything. And a few days later, he told me all the reasons I couldn’t come the day they found you.”
He closed his eyes, letting the guilt wash through without resisting it. “I never wanted—”
“I know,” she said again, softer still. “You’ve never wanted to hurt us. That’s why it hurts so much when you disappear into danger.”
She squeezed his hand. “I need you to know something. I’ve been tested. Your sister’s been tested. Scott too.”
His eyes opened. “Ma—”
“Don’t,” she said, not sharply, just firmly. “You don’t get to decide what we’re willing to do for you. That stopped being your call the day you were born.”
Emotion crept up his throat. Dante laughed once, breath hitching. “I’m sorry I scared you.” The words came rough, scraped from somewhere deep. “I never wanted to be the call in the middle of the night.”
Miriam leaned forward and pressed her forehead gently to his. “You didn’t scare me. You reminded me why I raised you the way I did. You fight. You survive. And you come back.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him. “And Shannon,” she added. “She’s lovely. Strong. She looks at you like she knows exactly who you are.”
He smiled, softer this time. “She does.”
Miriam brushed her thumb over his knuckles. “Good. Because you don’t have to do this alone anymore. You have her, and you have us.”
Dante closed his eyes again.
AFRICOM – STUTTGART GERMANY
The walls were matte-gray steel. No windows. No cell signals. Just filtered air and surveillance so tight, it didn’t need to be visible. General Barrett Haines stood behind the desk, crisp in full dress uniform, a man built by war and sculpted by discipline. He didn’t sit.
Ford Cox did. He looked like hell. The coffee hadn’t helped. The data he’d scraped at Chase Intelligence hadn’t slept in his brain once since it arrived.
He set the tablet down slowly. “I’m going to say this once,” Ford began. “And I hope like hell I’m wrong.”
Haines arched a brow. “Go on.”
“Someone used your credentials to build a false chain of clearance,” Ford said. “They shielded Daniel Krueger, from his admission to and his expulsion from the Air Force Academy, all the way through the day he died in the OR.”
Haines didn’t blink. “I’ve never signed a single page related to Daniel Krueger.”
Ford stared at him. “No offense, General, but that sounds exactly like what someone who did would say.”
Haines leaned in slightly, his voice low and tight. “You think I wouldn’t remember authorizing a rogue intelligence asset with a trail of criminal activity behind him?”
“You were joint intel liaison. Your name appears on AFRICOM routing logs for the Sahel. The ones that covered for Daniel’s last movements.”
Haines didn’t flinch. “I was in D.C or here in Stuttgart for every one of those authorizations. That wasn’t me.” He shoved the printout of the logs at him.
Ford didn’t respond.
Haines stepped back, arms crossed now. “Why aren’t you looking at Matthew Krueger?
He spent a good part of his life chasing after Daniel with a pooper scooper.
That kid tortured him. He was always in trouble.
Car accidents. Burglaries. He had a nasty streak.
And what hurt Matthew most: rumor had it Daniel was gay.
Matthew is old world, old beliefs. You’re supposed to love your child unconditionally. ”
Ford stood slowly. “We were told Matthew Krueger died a year ago. Complications from autoimmune liver failure. Records matched. VA certified. Cremation signed in Fort Collins.”
Haines narrowed his eyes. “Fort Collins?”
Ford’s pulse ticked. “Yes, why?”
“Because that’s where Matthew’s wife is buried. She died two years back. Cardiac arrest. I sent flowers.”
Ford blinked, taking in that detail—realizing it wasn’t in any briefing he’d seen.
“She was buried,” Haines added, “under a different name. Her maiden. The family didn't want media attention. Her death nearly broke him. But Matthew? He retired. I never heard a damn thing about his death. Last I was told, he was sick. In a sanatorium somewhere out west.”