Chapter 18 RYDER
RYDER
The moment Kate confirms what I’ve been suspecting from the moment I laid my eyes on Julian, I’m unable to say anything. Silence has always been easier than reacting wrong, and this—this is too big to get wrong. The word hangs between us anyway, sinking in layer by layer.
Son. Fuck. I have a son.
I’ve carried worse truths, absorbed worse outcomes, but this one doesn’t come with instructions or an exit route. There’s no doctrine for it, or training manual I can fall back on. The usual reflex—assess, neutralize, and move on—has nowhere to land.
My gaze drifts back to the bassinet without me deciding to look.
Julian is sleeping on his side now, tiny mouth parted, breath soft and even.
The fire throws a slow rhythm of light across his face, confirming each suspicion I had.
I felt it, and now it’s been settled. Julian James Ellington is my son.
I’ve always been careful about attachments.
I learned early what happens when people become leverage.
What it costs when you hesitate, what you lose when the world finds something you’re not willing to sacrifice.
That’s why I left, built this place, and live like a ghost—slipping through the cracks, existing just far enough out of reach that no one can get their hands around my throat through someone else.
And now there’s a child here. My child.
As I look at my son—my son—for the first time with clear eyes, I understand something with a clarity that cuts through every doubt I’ve ever carried. I may not know how to live with this truth, but I will die protecting it.
I glance back at Kate, who is watching me carefully, like she expects me to vanish and shut the door the way I always do. She’s braced for rejection, even now, even after everything it took to get here.
“I don’t make promises lightly,” I start. “So take my word for it when I tell you that I will keep both of you safe.”
I don’t know how to be a father, how to stay, or exist in a world where my choices ripple outward instead of stopping with me. But I know this: no one touches what’s mine.
She exhales, a slow, steady breath, looking relieved. She doesn’t thank me, cry, or try to turn it into something bigger than it is, which I appreciate.
“That’s all I need,” she replies quietly.
I nod once in response as we have reached an agreement.
From there, my mind shifts automatically into motion as I start running through contingencies the way I always do.
I step away from the table and move toward the console built into the wall, fingers flying over the interface as I bring up the external feeds.
Thermal cameras sweep the tree line, the motion sensors registering clean with no anomalies.
After that, I check on the escape routes. I have two vehicles ready, fueled. Speaking of vehicles, I turn to Kate. “You told me you packed up a car to come here. Why did I find you on foot, halfway up the mountain?”
“My car wasn’t built for such terrain, and it got even worse when it started raining. I got stuck in a trench and had to abandon it,” she explains.
I hum in understanding, realizing just how much she had to go through to get here. “I’ll go get it tomorrow. You and Julian need your own clothes, and I only have so many towels. The kid needs diapers.”
She blushes in embarrassment, nodding at my suggestion.
I go back to checking supplies and the airstrip mapped in case of a worst-case scenario that requires us to bail out of here. Kate watches me work without interrupting or asking questions; she knows I won’t answer. There’s intelligence in that restraint.
Night settles calmly around the house as the last of the storm drains away, leaving behind a deep quiet that presses in from all sides.
Julian wakes once, with a small, restless sound that signals discomfort more than need. Kate moves before I do, instinct guiding her steps, and I watch closely as she lifts him from the bassinet. Her movements are gentle but practiced, the result of months spent learning his language the hard way.
She murmurs to him—nonsense words layered with affection—rocking him lightly as she checks his improvised diaper and adjusts his blanket.
“Do you want to…” she trails off, glancing at me. “Do you want to help?”
She doesn’t assume, she offers, and by God, if that doesn’t wreck me from the inside.
I step closer, careful with my hands, conscious of my size, my strength. She places him in my arms without ceremony, guiding my grip with a light touch. He weighs almost nothing, but the awareness of him is overwhelming, the responsibility settling into my arms with unexpected gravity.
He smells like clean skin, milk, and warmth. He squirms, unhappy with the transition, and I instinctively adjust, tucking him closer to my chest the way I held him earlier. His head fits neatly beneath my chin, breath puffing softly against my collarbone. The tension drains out of him in seconds.
Kate watches me, eyes searching, but I keep my focus on him.
“This was the last place I wanted to come to. I know you didn’t want any of this. I just needed him safe, and I had nowhere else to go,” she expresses.
Her honesty lands harder than any accusation could have.
“I know,” I reply.
And I do.
This isn’t about stepping into a role or rewriting the past. This is about the present and the future intersecting, whether I want them to or not.
I glance down at Julian again, committing every detail to memory like I might need it later—the curve of his cheek, the faint crease between his brows, the way his chest rises and falls.
We move through the rest of the routine together without speaking much. She prepares the crib in the spare bedroom, since it’s closer and warmer than the bassinet, while I walk him slowly back and forth.
When I finally lay him down, he stirs but doesn’t wake. His fingers curl briefly around my thumb before loosening again, and the contact sends a sharp, unexpected jolt through my chest. I step back, hands dropping to my sides, watching him sleep.
After watching him for what feels like not enough time, we shift to the living room.
Kate and I stand by the window, not quite touching, nor quite apart.
The air between us feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid.
I’m aware of her in a way that has nothing to do with threat or necessity.
The way she shifts her weight when she’s tired, the faint crease between her brows she gets when she’s thinking too hard.
The scent of her—clean, warm, and faintly citrus—cutting through the ever-present cinnamon.
She turns to face me, eyes searching mine, and for a moment neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just full.
“Once this is all over, we—“ she starts.
I shake my head once, stopping her. Not now. She closes her mouth, nodding slowly.
I don’t plan it.
That’s the thing that gets me—not the want or the pull, but the fact that it happens without strategy.
Without the careful mental choreography I apply to everything else.
One moment we’re standing there in the quiet aftermath of putting a child to sleep, the next the space between us has narrowed until it barely exists at all.
Kate’s hand rests against my chest, fingers splayed, as if she’s checking for something solid beneath the skin. I don’t stop her or say anything. Words would cheapen this, reduce it to something smaller than it is. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
“I know it’s weird saying this—“ she begins, then stops herself. She swallows and continues. “But I missed you.”
She chuckles awkwardly to ease the tension. The words are caught in my throat, so I answer by leaning in and capturing her lips with mine.
This kiss is nothing like the others we’ve shared. There’s no urgency in it, nor the sharp edge of desperation. It’s slow and intentional, my mouth fitting to hers like we’re both aware that this time, walking away would mean something.
Her breath stutters softly when I deepen it, my hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. She melts into me with a quiet sound, her body pressing closer without hesitation.
I feel it everywhere. Not just want, but recognition of the one woman who keeps flipping my life upside down each time she walks into it.
My other hand settles at her waist, grounding us both.
I keep the kiss unhurried, letting it stretch and deepen, letting her feel exactly where I am and that I’m not going anywhere.
She responds in kind, hands sliding up my arms, touch tentative at first and then sure, like she’s testing whether I’ll disappear if she leans too hard.
I don’t, and I won’t.
When we break apart, it’s only because we have to breathe. Our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, the moment humming with restraint.
“This is different,” she whispers.
I nod once. “I know.”
I guide her toward the bedroom without urgency, every step intentional.
There’s no tearing at clothes, no frantic need to get skin on skin as fast as possible.
I take my time peeling layer after layer, learning her again in this new context—how she relaxes when she feels held, how her body responds when she realizes I’m paying attention to every reaction of my skin on hers.
When I set her naked self down on the bed, illuminated by the moonlight, I can’t help but note how her body has been changed by motherhood. Her breasts are a cup size bigger, hips wider, with stretch marks on her thighs and stomach.
She reaches out to cover herself from me. “I know I’ve changed. We don’t have to—“
I growl in warning, silencing her with a kiss that steals her breath and words away. She moans, arching her back into my touch. I reach between us to cup her breast in my hands. She whimpers into the kiss when I pinch her nipple.
“Never, ever say that again. You’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and trust me, I’ve seen plenty,” I assure her.
She blushes, her whole face turning pink. “Thank you,” she mutters.
My lips find hers once more as her hands travel lower to grab my cock that’s nestled against her thigh. I hiss as she wraps her fist around me, swiping her thumb across the head.
“Fuck,” I groan as I shift between her legs, replacing her hand with mine as I align myself with her.
I look into her eyes for permission, and the trust that she’s gazing back at me with nearly breaks me. When I thrust forward, burying my whole length into her, it’s with care and longing. I give her a moment to adjust before I start moving.
The world is falling apart outside this mountain, but tonight, it’s just us.
I stay anchored in the present—in the way she fits against me, how her hands cling when she needs reassurance, the way her breath changes when I slow things down instead of pushing forward.
I keep my movements controlled, letting the connection build instead of burn out.
She meets me there, matching my pace, trusting me with a vulnerability she doesn’t offer lightly. I don’t rush her or myself. I stay with her through every shift, quiet sound, and moment where emotion threatens to spill over into something we’re not ready to name yet.
Pulling her up, I shift positions so that she’s on my lap bouncing off me, this position allowing me to be in much deeper.
She wraps her arms around my neck for support, her nipples brushing against my chest with each thrust. When I feel her walls clenching around me, I lean in and kiss her just as we fall off the edge together.
When it’s over and the intensity ebbs into something softer, Kate rests against me, her head tucked under my chin, breathing steady and warm. The house is silent around us, the night deep and watchful beyond the glass.
I lean back onto the bed with her on top of me, staring up at the ceiling, aware of the weight of her, the knowledge that a child sleeps safely down the hall, and the promise I made earlier still settling into my bones.