Chapter 25 Nina
Nina
Someone’s in my backyard.
I set my book aside and slip out of bed, pulse hammering in my throat. The motion sensors trip as I reach the kitchen, flooding my patio with light beyond the windows. A muffled grunt carries through the glass—then another—and adrenaline sharpens everything to crystalline clarity.
My hand finds the panic button on the kitchen island without conscious thought, but I don’t press it yet. Through the window, I catch a flash of movement near the ornamental grasses—dark shapes against darker shadows, too coordinated to be random intruders.
Then I hear a familiar voice, low and resigned: “Of course she has a security team.”
Chris.
I flip the interior light switch, then throw open the back door.
The scene that greets me would be comical if my heart wasn’t trying to punch through my sternum. Two men sprawled face-down in my yard, zip-tied at the wrists, with Lucia and Darius crouched over them like they’ve just bagged prize catches.
Wyatt’s face is turned toward me, his lower lip is split, swollen and dark against his pale skin.
Chris lies a few feet away, dirt smudged across his jaw where blood has dried from what looks like a scrape.
Both of them look resigned rather than surprised, like this is exactly what they expected to happen.
My stomach clenches. Did Lucia and Darius hurt them?
I’m not shocked they’re here. The way I fled tonight, the conversation we didn’t finish, everything hanging between us.
What surprises me is that they came together, given how Wyatt looked ready to throttle Chris when I left.
And naturally they were stupid enough to try sneaking around instead of just knocking on my door like normal human beings.
The relief filling me, though? That’s sharp and immediate and completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
I step onto the cold flagstone patio barefoot, crossing my arms against the cool night air. “Lucia. Darius. You can let them go.”
“Boss?” Lucia looks up from where she’s securing Chris’s restraints, her dark eyes sharp with professional assessment. “These two were conducting surveillance. Perimeter breach, deliberate avoidance of security cameras. Standard protocol is—”
“I know them,” I interrupt. “They’re safe. Stupid, but safe.”
Darius straightens, squinting in the harsh patio light. “You want us to release them?”
“Yes. And cut the zip ties.”
“You sure about that?” Lucia’s voice carries the particular skepticism of someone who’s seen too many bad decisions disguised as mercy. “Because they look like they’ve been in a fight, and now they’re skulking around your house in the dark.”
I glance between Chris and Wyatt, cataloging the evidence she’s right to be concerned about. Between the torn clothing and bruises, they look like they’ve been through a blender.
But there’s something else in their posture as they lie there—a resigned acceptance that speaks to shared experience rather than conflict. They’re not radiating the tension of men who hate each other. If anything, they seem almost... comfortable with each other’s presence.
Interesting.
“They’re part of the team,” I say. “Darius, you met Agent Longo last week. This is Agent Booth—he just flew in from Denver.”
Recognition flickers across Darius’s features as he gets a better look at Chris’s face in the light. He nods slowly.
Lucia, however, looks distinctly unimpressed. “And they couldn’t knock because...?”
“Because they’re idiots,” I say, loud enough for both men to hear.
Chris makes a sound that might be laughter, muffled by the grass.
“Fair enough,” Lucia says, pulling out a tactical knife. “But for the record, this is exactly the kind of behavior that gets people shot in other neighborhoods.”
She cuts through the zip ties with efficient movements, then steps back as both men slowly push themselves to sitting positions. Wyatt works his shoulders, grimacing as circulation returns to his hands. Chris examines the shallow cuts on his wrists where the plastic bit in.
“You guys okay to handle this from here?” Darius asks, eyes moving between the three of us with the careful attention of someone reading a complex social dynamic.
I want to tell him I’m fine, that I can handle whatever conversation is about to happen. But my hands are already shaking, and the nausea that’s been my constant companion for days is back with a vengeance. They’re here, though, so I may as well stop putting off this conversation any longer.
“We’re good,” I manage.
“You sure?” Lucia steps closer, voice dropping to a tone only I can hear. “Because you look like you’re about to either throw up or pass out.”
Perceptive as always.
“I’m sure.”
Lucia nods once, then gestures for Darius to follow her toward the side gate. “We’ll lock up the perimeter on our way out.”
They disappear into the darkness, leaving me alone with two men who look like they’ve been through a war zone.
For a moment, nobody speaks. The silence stretches, heavy with everything we haven’t said.
“Well,” I say finally. “This is dramatic.”
A sheepish look flickers across Chris’s features. “We probably should have just knocked.”
“Probably.”
Wyatt stands slowly, wincing as his joints protest. “Are you okay?”
The question is gentle, careful, weighted with everything I told him before Chris arrived at dinner—and everything I didn’t.
“I’ve been better.” I wrap my arms tighter around myself, wishing I’d grabbed my fluffy bathrobe before rushing out. All I’m wearing are thin gray satin pajama bottoms and the matching camisole top. “What are you doing here?”
“We were worried,” Chris says. “After tonight—after the way you left—”
“And your solution was to show up at my house uninvited? To sneak around my backyard like stalkers?”
“Because I didn’t want our bosses watching us show up looking like a couple of street brawlers,” Chris mutters.
“Which is only because you punched me in the face,” Wyatt says.
I look between them, absorbing the scene. The split lip, the bruised knuckles—those aren’t from Lucia and Darius. They did this to each other.
“So that’s why you look like this,” I say, gesturing between them. “You two fought after I left?
“In Mason’s living room,” Wyatt confirms.
“About me, I take it?”
“About a lot of things,” Chris says. “But yeah. Mostly about you.”
The knowledge sits strangely in my chest. I should be angry—I am angry—about them making this about them. But there’s something else underneath. A twisted satisfaction that they cared enough to come to blows over me.
God, I really am fucked up.
“Callie read us the riot act,” Wyatt adds. “Made it very clear that we were being assholes who needed to get our priorities straight.”
“And now you’re here to... what? Apologize?”
“To apologize,” Wyatt agrees. “And to finish whatever conversation you need to have, if you still want to have it.”
“On your terms, though. Showing up unannounced, sneaking around my house—”
“You’re right,” Chris interrupts. “That was wrong. All of it. I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, Callie’s basically going to kill me next time she sees me. She warned me not to come.”
“We should have waited,” Wyatt adds. “Should have called first.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Another look passes between them. This one I recognize—the careful negotiation of who says what, when. I’m not sure whether to feel ganged up on or grateful the two of them are being civil after what looks to have been a serious fight.
“Because you shouldn’t have to deal with this alone,” Chris says.
“I’m not alone. I have Callie—”
“You know what I mean.”
I do know what he means. And that’s the problem.
The November night air is cool against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.
“Come inside,” I say, stepping back toward the door. “Before the neighbors start wondering why I’m entertaining bloodied men in my backyard.”
They follow me into the kitchen, and suddenly the space feels smaller with both of them in it.
“Tea? Coffee?” I offer, but Chris is already filling the carafe.
“Sit down,” he says. Not unkindly. “I’ve got this.”
I reach for the canister with the coffee out of habit, but my hands shake so badly I nearly drop it. Chris’s hand closes over mine, steady and warm, and gently takes it from me.
“I said I’ve got it.” His voice is soft. No edge to it at all.
Wyatt moves closer. “Come here,” he says, opening his arms.
I step into his embrace.
His arms close around me, solid and warm, and for the first time in days I feel like I can actually breathe.
Behind me, I hear Chris moving through my kitchen—the clink of mugs, the rustle of him searching for sugar and spoons, the quiet click of the coffee maker starting.
He navigates the space like he’s been here before, finding what he needs without asking.
The two of them working in tandem—Wyatt holding me together while Chris handles the practical—feels so natural it makes my chest ache. Like this is how it was always supposed to work.
“I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell us,” Wyatt murmurs against my hair.
I press closer, letting him support more of my weight. Letting him be the anchor I’ve been desperately needing. But I don’t miss the way he said us and not me. As if he and Chris are a unit.
A mug appears on the counter beside us. Chris sets it down carefully, then places a second one next to it. He leans against the counter a few feet away, cradling his own mug, close enough that I can feel his presence without being crowded.
When I finally pull back from Wyatt, I find Chris watching me. His eyes are soft with the same concern I see in Wyatt’s.
“Better?” Wyatt asks.
“A little.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
I look at Chris, leaning against my counter like he’s done a hundred times before, and memories flood back. It’s like he was never gone, like he’s back right where he belongs.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. But you’re both here. There’s no point putting it off.”