Chapter 15
Consciousness returned slowly, pulling Cory from the depths of exhausted sleep.
Something was wrong. Not danger-wrong, but.
.. wrong. His neck ached from the unfamiliar angle, and the couch beneath him was definitely not his bed.
Memory crashed back—the explosion, Izzy's apartment, insisting on staying—
Someone was watching him.
His eyes snapped open to find a small face inches from his own, dark eyes studying him with scientific intensity.
His heart rate spiked. Not used to waking up to small humans.
"Mommy said I couldn't wake you up," Chantal informed him solemnly. "But you're awake now, so it's okay."
Kid logic. Right. He sat up slowly, trying not to spook her, his uniform wrinkled beyond salvation. "Morning, Chantal."
"Are you having breakfast with us? Mommy's making pancakes. She only makes pancakes when she's worried, but she says she's not worried." The little girl tilted her head. "Are you worried?"
Before he could formulate a response that wouldn't alarm a six-year-old, Izzy's voice carried from the kitchen. "Chantal Marie, stop interrogating the police chief and come set the table."
"But Mommy—"
"Now, mija."
The little person sighed dramatically and padded toward the kitchen. Cory followed, drawn by the domestic sounds and the smell of pancakes that made his stomach remind him he'd skipped dinner.
Izzy stood at the stove, looking impossibly put-together for someone who'd nearly been blown up a few hours ago. She glanced over her shoulder. Laughter danced in her eyes.
"She's been watching you for ten minutes. I told her not to poke you to see if you were really asleep."
"I appreciate the restraint." He rubbed his neck, trying to work out the kink.
The small kitchen felt even smaller with him in it, but not uncomfortably so. Luz sat at the table, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, while Chantal distributed mismatched plates with the precision of a drill sergeant.
"Sit," Luz commanded, pointing to an empty chair. "You're too tall. You're making my kitchen nervous."
He sat, watching the easy choreography of their morning routine.
Izzy flipped pancakes while Chantal narrated each step of proper table setting.
Luz corrected her granddaughter's placement of forks with gentle touches.
The warmth of it, the normalcy, made something in his chest tighten unexpectedly.
When had he stopped wanting this? A family, noise in the morning, someone to worry about besides himself?
Or had he ever started wanting it in the first place?
His apartment waited for him across town—pristine, silent, everything in its place.
No small hands rearranging his fork. No one making pancakes because they were worried.
"What are you thinking about?"
Izzy's question cut through his reverie. She was looking at him with those dark eyes that probably saw too much.
He scrambled for something to say. "Security protocols for the—"
"Pancakes are up." She spun back to the stove, but not before he caught her knowing look. She'd seen him staring at their family like a kid outside a candy store window.
Professional distance. Right. That ship had already sailed.
"Chief Cory, you need sprinkles." Chantal pushed a container across the table with the seriousness of someone handling nuclear materials. "The special ones."
He examined the container. Multicolored star shapes mixed with what appeared to be edible glitter. "Special?"
"For the unicorns," she explained patiently, like he was a bit slow. "They won't see your pancakes if they're not sparkly."
"Ah. Of course." He shook a few onto his pancakes.
"No, you need MORE." Her small hand covered his, guiding the shake of the container. "Like this."
The trust in that gesture—her complete faith that he'd get it right with proper instruction—hit him hard. When was the last time anyone had trusted him with something precious to them? Not their safety, their procedures, their investigations. Something that mattered just because it mattered.
He caught Izzy hiding a smile behind her coffee mug, and their eyes met over Chantal's head. The same thought passed between them—bombs and breakfast, death threats and unicorn sprinkles. The surreal contrast of it all.
She mouthed "I know."
"Comes with the territory, though, right?" she said aloud, casual as discussing the weather.
He nodded, but the ease of her compartmentalization impressed him. She'd done this before—lived normal life with danger breathing down her neck. His two tours in Iraq seemed almost quaint compared to whatever "top secret ops" had taught her to flip pancakes while someone hunted her.
The morning moved too quickly after that. Izzy helped her mother pack with efficient movements, explaining to Chantal about a "special adventure" with carefully vague promises about fun activities.
"Are there ponies?" Chantal wanted to know.
"Maybe. There'll be lots of fun things to do with Abuela."
"And swimming?"
"We'll see, mija."
Then Chantal stopped dead, her face crumpling. "What about the pageant? My angel wings."
The stricken look that flashed across Izzy's face made Cory want to punch something. Preferably whoever had put that fear there.
"You'll be back in time, mija." The words came out fierce, more prayer than promise. "I promise."
Izzy's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and her shoulders shifted into something more military. "He's here."
Cory moved to the window, peering through the blinds. A vehicle sat outside that looked like a Humvee had mated with a tank and their offspring had taken steroids.
"Nice ride," he said. "Does it come with a tinfoil hat?"
She rolled her eyes. "It's safe. Bulletproof, mostly bomb-proof, and shielded from EM radiation."
"Naturally."
"Wilson trained me in... a program I can't discuss." She busied herself checking Luz's bags. "Best tactical mind I've ever known. And completely off anyone's radar. He'll keep them safe."
Unorthodox didn't begin to cover it. But then again, they'd passed orthodox about the time her car exploded.
The knock was sharp, efficient. Izzy opened the door to reveal what Cory could only describe as a mountain in human form.
Late fifties, grizzled beard, eyes that took in every detail of the room in a single sweep.
The man moved with the economy of someone who'd learned that wasted motion got you killed.
His gaze landed on Cory. One nod. "Fraser. Hope Landing PD eight years. Army before that. Commendation for the Sullivan hostage situation."
Cory's spine straightened involuntarily. The Sullivan situation had been kept deliberately quiet. How deep had this guy dug?
"Wilson," was all the man offered in return.
"I'll get their things," Izzy said, disappearing down the hall with Luz.
The moment they were alone, Wilson's demeanor shifted. "Current on CQB tactics?"
"Yes, sir."
"When's the last time you qualified expert?"
"Six months ago."
"Know the difference between cover and concealment?"
"Cover stops bullets. Concealment doesn't."
The rapid-fire assessment continued—tactical formations, emergency medical, convoy procedures. Cory answered crisply, feeling like a recruit again under a drill instructor's glare.
Finally, Wilson grunted. "You'll do, I guess. Not like we've got a choice at the moment."
Before Cory could bristle at that insult, Izzy emerged with Luz and Chantal, bags in hand. Chantal immediately launched into a detailed explanation of unicorn sprinkles to Wilson, who listened with surprising patience.
"Ready, Princess?" Wilson asked Izzy.
She nodded. "Mama, vamos."
Quick hugs, whispered Spanish endearments, Chantal's arms tight around her mother's neck. Then Wilson was shepherding them into his mobile fortress with gentle efficiency.
"Your mama and baby will be safe," he told Izzy.
"I know." Absolute trust in those two words.
Then they were gone, the rumble of the modified vehicle fading into morning traffic. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty. Evidence of hasty departure lay everywhere—Chantal's coloring books, Luz's coffee mug still warm, the lingering scent of pancake batter.
Cory caught Izzy looking at him, expression unreadable.
"What?"
She shrugged. "Never seen you rumpled."
He looked down in horror. His uniform was wrinkled beyond redemption, shirt untucked on one side, and who knew what his hair was doing. When had he become the guy who didn't care about—
"It's a new look for you," she said, flipping one last pancake onto a plate. "I like it."
He found himself trying to smooth his shirt, fix what couldn't be fixed without an iron and a comb. She turned back to the stove, hiding what might have been a smile.
"What now?" she asked, the moment passing.
His stomach growled audibly. "More pancakes?"
"We should get to the investigation."
"You need to eat too. Then we join the investigation." He pulled out Luz's chair. "Sit. Eat. That's an order."
"You're not my boss."
"I'm the guy standing between you and whoever wants you dead. That makes me the boss of your nutritional intake."
She snorted but sat, sliding a plate across to him. They ate in companionable silence for a moment before he reached for the unicorn sprinkles.
"Chantal's gone," she pointed out.
"I'm aware." He shook a generous amount onto his stack. "I kind of like them."
The admission surprised them both. Her almost-smile returned, warming something in his chest.
He watched her eat mechanically, mind clearly elsewhere. Probably running tactical scenarios, calculating threats, planning countermoves. The warrior beneath the mother's skin. She'd survived things that would break most people, himself included. She didn't need protecting—she'd proven that.
But need and want were different animals entirely.
She might not respect his by-the-book methods. Wilson's assessment made it clear her world saw him as a small-town cop playing above his weight class. But warriors recognized warriors, even across different battlefields.
And warriors hunted those who threatened their pack.
His pack now included Isabella Reyes and her small, precious family.
Whether she wanted it or not.