Chapter Fifteen #2
"Promise me." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Promise me that's real."
"It's real." She kissed his jaw, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. "It's the most real thing I've ever had."
He came apart first—a ragged sound torn from somewhere deep, his body going rigid in her arms. She followed him over the edge seconds later, the wave cresting with a warmth that spread from her center to her fingertips, and for a long, suspended moment, nothing existed except the two of them and the quiet, overwhelming certainty that this was permanent.
The room settled around them. Heartbeats slowing. Breathing evening out. His weight on her, heavy and welcome, his face pressed into the curve of her neck.
She ran her fingers through his hair, feeling him relax in stages. Shoulders first. Then his spine. Then his hands, finally unclenching, finally open against the sheets.
"Tell me about the clinic," he said eventually. Muffled against her skin. "The rebuilt version. Tell me what it looks like."
She smiled at the ceiling. "New paint. Something warmer than white—maybe sage green. The sign stays, but we get it professionally lettered instead of my terrible handwriting."
"Your handwriting isn't terrible."
"It's terrible and you know it." She shifted so they lay side by side, his arm pulling her against him automatically.
"The exam rooms get proper lighting. The barn gets rebuilt—stronger, with the reinforced exits you designed.
And the back pasture gets fenced for recovering animals.
The ones we pull from operations like Pittman's. "
"Rescue animals."
"Rehabilitation. Dogs, horses, whatever comes through.
The fighting dogs especially—the ones that survive need months of behavioral work before they can trust people again.
" Her hand traced idle circles on his chest. "I want to build something that undoes what men like Pittman do.
Not just treating injuries—actually healing the damage. "
Forge was quiet for a moment. She could feel him thinking—not the tactical calculation of threats and positions, but something more careful. More hopeful.
"The security system runs twenty-four-seven," he said. "Cameras on every approach, motion sensors in the tree line, panic buttons in every room. Hardwired, not wireless—wireless can be jammed."
"Obviously."
"And the safe room gets a veterinary kit. Not just survival supplies—actual medical equipment. So if something happens while you're treating an animal, you can lock down and keep working."
"You want me to perform surgery in a bunker."
"I want you to never have to choose between safety and doing your job." His arm tightened around her. "I want you to have both. Always."
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. In the low light, his face was open. Relaxed. The permanent tension that lived in his jaw had eased, and his eyes were warm instead of watchful.
"What about you?" she asked. "Where do you fit when the security system's running and the clinic's rebuilt and the animals are healing?"
"Wherever you need me." No hesitation. "Checking perimeters. Maintaining equipment. Building things that keep what you love safe." His hand came up to tuck hair behind her ear. "I've spent my whole career maintaining weapons. Things designed to destroy. I want to maintain something that heals."
"That's a pay cut from sergeant at arms."
"The benefits are better." His mouth twitched. "I hear the boss is demanding, though. Bullies Army Rangers into following treatment protocols."
"Someone has to."
He pulled her down and kissed her—long and slow and tasting like the future they were building word by word, plan by plan, in a narrow bed that smelled like gun oil and antiseptic and something that might have been home.
"Two more days," he said when they separated. "Maybe less. Church tomorrow to finalize the assault plan. Then we hit Pittman's barn and end this."
"And after?"
"After, we build." His fingers laced through hers. "Everything we just talked about. The clinic, the security, the rehabilitation program. All of it. With the same obsessive attention to detail that I bring to everything else."
"Promise?"
"I've already drawn the blueprints." He said it like a confession. "Three different versions. Been working on them since the morning we sat in the kitchen and made plans."
Caroline stared at him. "You've been designing my clinic's security system for over a week?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"You never sleep."
"Exactly." His smile was small and real and entirely hers. "Had to do something with the time."
She laughed—the genuine, surprised sound that he seemed to collect like other men collected trophies. Then she settled against him, her head finding the place on his chest that fit like it had been carved for her.
His arm wrapped around her. His breathing steadied. And for the second time in their short, violent, impossible history, the man who never slept closed his eyes and drifted off with her weight against his heart.
Caroline stayed awake a while longer, listening to his breathing, feeling his heartbeat slow to the rhythm of actual rest.
Two more days, he'd said. Then the barn. Then Pittman. Then the future they'd been sketching in whispered conversations and security blueprints and the quiet spaces between violence.
She pressed her lips to his chest, just above his heart.
Hold on, she thought. We're almost there.
Outside, the compound hummed with the low vigilance of men who never fully slept. But in this room, one of them finally had.