Chapter 33 Gabriella
THIRTY-THREE
GAbrIELLA
The smell was the first thing that convinced Gabriella’s brain they weren’t out in the mud anymore. It wasn’t the metallic tang of rain or the rot of the forest floor; it was the rich, savory scent of beef stew and the yeasty, buttery aroma of baking biscuits.
She sat huddled on the stone hearth of the massive fireplace, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders, letting the radiant heat seep into her bones.
The lodge, abandoned only hours ago, now felt impossibly alive.
Its rough-hewn logs warmed the cool air and offered shelter from the unforgiving storm outside.
“Alright, chow line starts here,” Grizzly announced, wielding a ladle like a scepter.
He stood over a cast-iron pot hung over the fire, looking less like a lethal operator and more like a very large, very dangerous grandmother.
“And before anyone asks, yes, the biscuits are from scratch. I found flour and baking powder in the pantry. Don’t insult me. ”
“From scratch?” Reef asked, holding out a tin camping bowl. “You mean you didn’t just smash two MRE crackers together and call it a day?”
“Watch it, surfer boy,” Grizzly grunted, dropping a heavy scoop of stew into Reef’s bowl. “Or you get the burnt ones.”
Laughter rippled through the room, warm and genuine. It washed over Gabriella, easing the tight knot of tension that had settled between her shoulder blades for three days.
They were a strange, motley family huddled against the dark.
The elderly couple they had rescued, Elias and Martha, sat together on the largest couch, wrapped in thermal blankets.
They looked frail, their faces etched with exhaustion and the ordeal they had endured, but color was slowly returning to their cheeks.
“Thank you, son,” Martha said, her voice shaky but filled with gratitude as Grizzly handed her a bowl with surprising tenderness for a man his size. “It smells wonderful.”
“Eat up, ma’am,” Grizzly said softly. “It will put the fire back in you.”
Gabriella’s gaze drifted to Picasso. He stood near the window, peering out into the rain as it hammered the glass, but at the sound of the laughter, he turned away from the storm.
He walked over to the fire and accepted a bowl from Grizzly with a subtle nod.
He did not settle into a chair; instead, he lowered himself onto the floor next to the hearth, his back pressing against the warm stone just beside her leg.
The simple closeness sent a surprising jolt up her spine. He was not monitoring the perimeter or fiddling with his comms. He was here, present.
“Eat,” he murmured, nudging her knee with his shoulder.
She took a tentative bite. The stew was humble: canned beans, rehydrated beef, and spices Grizzly must have scavenged from the cupboards, but it tasted like a feast: savory and rich, with warmth that radiated through to her core.
“So,” Falcon started, tearing into a biscuit, “we gonna talk about how Hurricane slipped in the mud back at the creek? I give it a solid 4.5 on the dismount.”
“It was a tactical slide,” Hurricane defended, unbothered and calm while spooning stew into his mouth. “I was checking the soil stability.”
“With your face?” Reef snorted, eliciting a burst of laughter.
The room erupted again, even Elias chuckling with a dry, raspy sound. “Reminds me of my army days,” the old man said. “We spent more time eating mud than walking on it.”
The operators immediately shifted their attention to him, respectful and engaged, eager to learn about his past service. Gabriella took in the scene. These men, capable of breaching walls and sending targets tumbling from a mile out, were now gentle companions to two terrified old souls.
Picasso leaned back against the stone wall, eyes closing briefly. She noticed the deep lines of fatigue etched into his face and the gray shadows beneath his eyes. He was carrying the weight of everyone in this room. But for tonight, that burden seemed to lift, even if only for a moment.
They lingered for maybe an hour or two, trading stories, laughter, and camaraderie as the storm raged futilely against the thick log walls. Gradually, the adrenaline that had kept them upright began to ebb, overtaken by a heavy, overwhelming sleepiness.
Picasso gathered the team near the hearth, the fire casting flickering shadows on their tired faces.
“Alright,” he said, voice low but firm. “We’ve got from 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. to keep the fire going and an eye on Martha and Elias.
” He gave a small smile. “I’m trusting you all to work out the shifts yourselves. ”
The team exchanged surprised glances. Gabriella’s eyes narrowed. “You’re really giving up the schedule control?”
Picasso shrugged, a rare ease in his expression. “It’s not a mission anymore. It’s survival. You’re all seasoned, you can figure it out.”
Reef grinned. “Who wants the midnight shift? I’m thinking nobody.”
Falcon laughed. “Yeah, I vote 2 to 3 a.m. is the worst. I’ll take 4 a.m. if Grizzly’s cooking then.”
Grizzly smiled modestly. “Well, I’m happy to get up early and fix something warm. 4 a.m. works.”
Gabriella shook her head, amused. “This is seriously different from ‘Picasso’s way or the highway.’”
“Even chiefs need to loosen the reins sometimes,” Picasso replied, already stepping back toward the fire.
On the couch near the hearth, Martha and Elias snored softly, wrapped in blankets and warmed by the crackling flames.
The team settled into easy banter as they divvied up watches, settling comfortably into the night ahead.
Picasso extended a hand to Gabriella. She took it willingly, letting him help her to her feet. Her muscles ached deeply from the long, unforgiving day, a dull exhaustion that settled heavily into every fiber of her being.
“There’s a room upstairs,” he said quietly, voice meant only for her. “It has a bed.”
She nodded, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.
Together they climbed the creaking wooden stairs in silence, the only sounds the faint groan of the floorboards beneath their boots and the steady drum of rain against the window.
The room was small and tucked under the eaves, smelling faintly of cedar and fresh rain.
A simple quilt covered the bed, and a single window looked out onto the dark canopy of the forest.
Picasso closed the door behind them and locked it. The clicking latch sounded like the rest of the world falling away.
He turned to her. For a long moment they just stood in the muted light, his gaze stripping away the layers of mud, exhaustion, and the insulated ‘coordinator’ facade.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“I am now.” She stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “You kept your promise.”
“I intend to keep it for a long time,” he replied, his voice rough but steady.
His hands found her waist and pulled her in. This kiss was not hurried like the fevered one they had shared back in Mexico. It was slow and deep, tasting of survival, relief, and something terrifyingly close to hope.
His fingers trembled slightly as they fumbled at the buttons of her tactical shirt. Usually deft hands now betrayed their intent. She helped him, peeling away the wet, heavy layers of mission gear until only bare skin and warmth remained.
They tumbled onto the bed, the rough quilt scratching her back, but his body was a firm, solid heat she clung to.
“Gabriella,” he whispered her name like a prayer.
Their movements held a desperate urgency, a wordless affirmation that they were still alive, still whole.
His touch was possessive, memorizing the curve of her hip and the line of her spine.
She tangled her legs around him, pulling him close, desperate to feel the steady thump of his heart against hers.
For a man forged from steel and protocols, he loved with fierce and unguarded intensity. He untangled her carefully, and in doing so, allowed himself to come undone.
Outside, the storm settled into a steady, rhythmic hum. The room cooled, but beneath the quilt, wrapped tightly together, they were warm.
Gabriella laid her head against his chest, listening to his breathing deepen and slow into sleep. His arm draped over her, a protective weight anchoring her to the bed, to him, to this fleeting moment.
Fingertip tracing the line of his tribal tattoo, she felt him stir softly, tightening his hold even in dreams, burying his face in her hair.
“No more different planets,” she whispered into the darkness.
“Just us,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, already slipping away.
Her eyes closed and she surrendered to the darkness, finally safe in the eye of the storm.