Chapter 45
ELENA
The house is quiet, and I still find myself listening for any creak or scratch or out-of-the-ordinary sound that might signal danger, even though we’ve been assured the threat has been fully eliminated.
The men’s federal contacts confirmed that Anton Kozlov had paid the extra men who fought with him. They weren’t loyalists. They weren’t out for revenge like he was. No one else is coming for us.
Nevertheless, it will probably be a while before I can enjoy a peaceful afternoon without part of me being on alert. Unless my men are with me. When they’re around, my body and mind relax in that deep way you only can when you know you’re completely safe.
Right now, T.J. is with Mae, Buck’s at the station catching up on heaps of paperwork, and Weston drove Calder to the Moon Ridge clinic for a follow-up check on his lungs.
All three men came out of the attack banged up. Buck and Weston were dealing with bruises, cuts, and mild smoke irritation, while Calder took the worst of it with enough smoke inhalation to send him to the county hospital.
He spent a few hours on oxygen in the ER the night of the attack, while they did chest imaging and ran the rest of their tests. Since then, he’s been using the inhaler they prescribed, resting when he needs to, and is expected to recover fully.
Weston offered to go with Calder to the clinic today for “moral support,” but I know the real reason is that they all wanted to give me privacy to open the box that was delivered this morning.
It’s been sitting on the coffee table, holding an emotional weight disproportionate to its size.
I carry it into the den, set it on the desk, and cut the tape with a utility knife. I put in a request for these items nearly two months ago, but I’m honestly surprised they’re here so soon.
Inside, everything is packed with sterile precision, and an inventory sheet lists the replacement medals, reissued award certificates, and a couple of duplicate photographs.
My throat tightens even before I start unfolding the foam packing. For several seconds, I stand there with my fingers resting on the edge of the box and let myself breathe through it.
The room Kozlov targeted in our home has been fully repaired, but some violations leave marks that can’t be scrubbed out or covered with fresh paint.
The medals I unpack are too new. The paper certificates are crisp instead of softened at the edges. None of this belonged to Tyler, but the things they stand for did, and that’s the important part.
I have a shelf waiting for them. Even though T.J. and I may not be in this small house much longer, I want these things out in the open instead of boxed away like the originals were after we moved here, when I was too sad to unpack them.
I place the medals on the right, in a new shadow box I purchased. The certificates go on the left in simple frames. I retrieve the jewelry box from the desk drawer, carefully pick up the blackened SEAL Trident, and place it front and center.
My hands were steady at first, but they’re shaking a bit now, and it only gets worse when I unwrap the photograph that was sent.
It’s a duplicate of the team picture. Tyler with Buck, Weston, Calder, and the others, their faces bright in the sun. Younger men, all of them, wearing the kind of easy expression that makes it hurt to know what was still ahead.
I sit down in the chair with the picture in my hand and stare at it until my vision blurs.
So much has changed. The first time I saw this picture, Tyler said the names with easy affection. They were men from another part of his life, folded into stories I listened to without ever imagining I would know them like I do now.
Now I know the private versions of them. Buck, with his guard lowered just enough to let me glimpse how much he carries. Weston, with his endless patience, not soft, but generous. Calder, with all that restraint stretched over a heart more tender than he wants anyone to know.
T.J. is letting them into his world in small, careful pieces, and that’s what touches me most of all. They’re real in our lives now. They’re family.
I fit the picture into the waiting frame, then grab a nail and the hammer. When I hang the picture on the wall next to the shelf, it sits a little crooked. I straighten it, step back, and look.
Tyler smiles out at me from the center, and my chest tightens so suddenly I have to press a hand there.
“Hi,” I say softly.
The room stays still around me, and I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, though there’s no humor in it.
I used to talk to him all the time after he died. In the car, in the shower, in the dark while T.J. slept down the hall, and the whole world felt split open. Over time, those conversations thinned out, but it wasn’t because I stopped loving him, and never because I stopped thinking of him.
Now, the words come slowly, but they come.
“They replaced everything Kozlov destroyed. Well, everything they could.” I look at the shelf, then back at the picture.
“Letters are gone, and so are some of your personal pictures, but I’ll never forget them.” My voice cracks, and I pause, swallow, then take a breath.
“We’re safe,” I tell him, trying to let the meaning of the words settle into my bones. “We can move forward without looking over our shoulders.”
My eyes burn, and I fold my arms over my middle. “For a long time, I thought moving forward would mean leaving you behind.” I take a step closer to the picture. “But that isn’t what this is.”
I take another deep breath. “I fell in love again.”