Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Lyra
The SUV pulls away from the lodge. It’s the first time since we arrived that we’ve left the premises. Stryker asked me to join him for dinner to celebrate all the good news from headquarters.
And since it feels like a weight has been lifted, I’m excited to finally get out.
Tires crunch over packed snow that glitters under the security floods.
My pulse thrums steady in my throat, not fear, just the low electric hum of stepping back into a world that no longer has my name on any list.
We’re in the back together, and Stryker’s hand finds my thigh the instant we turn onto the plowed road, palm warm through the thin wool of my dress that I had delivered.
His thumb strokes slow arcs that keep me anchored to him. I watch the mountains slide past the tinted windows, dark shapes against a darker sky, and I truly taste freedom.
We arrive at the restaurant tucked into the base of the slope, all warm timber beams and soft golden light spilling onto the snow.
Waving off the valet, the driver helps us out.
A second Hawkeye operative holds the door for us.
Inside, the air smells of woodsmoke and roasted garlic and something buttery that makes my stomach wake up.
With a warm greeting, the hostess leads us past the main room where couples lean close over candlelit tables, down a short hallway lined with black-and-white photographs of skiers in old wool knickers carving turns down runs that no longer exist.
She opens a heavy door onto a private room that feels like it was carved out of the mountain itself.
A single table waits beneath a chandelier made of antlers, candles already lit, flames dancing in glass hurricanes.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the valley, the lights of Winter Park scattered below us like someone spilled a box of stars across black velvet. The fire roars in a river-stone hearth, throwing heat that licks across my bare shoulders and down my spine.
The two Hawkeye operatives take up their positions outside the door, their silhouettes visible for a heartbeat before the heavy wood swings shut with a soft, final click.
Stryker pulls out my chair, knuckles brushing the nape of my neck as I sit.
His touch is deliberate, possessive, sending heat straight between my legs.
He takes the seat across from me, close enough that our knees touch under the linen cloth. The waiter pours wine—deep red, rich, tasting of black cherries and smoke—and tells us about the chef’s tasting menu.
We both agree to that.
With a polite nod, he vanishes as silently as he arrived.
For a moment we simply breathe, the fire popping, the snow ticking softly against the windows.
Stryker lifts his glass, eyes locked on mine over the rim. “To freedom.”
I touch my glass to his, the crystal singing. “To choices.”
We drink. The wine slides warm down my throat, pooling low in my belly.
He sets his glass down, but he keeps his fingers curled around the stem.
“We have options now.” His voice is low, steady, the same tone he used the night he told me I was safe.
“My condo in Denver is big enough for two. Rooftop patio gets morning sun. You could work from there, take whatever design clients you want, disappear into your screens when I’m at headquarters. ”
I picture it instantly—waking up in his bed that smells of us and our love, sunlight pouring over the covers, my laptop on the kitchen island while he brews coffee strong enough to strip paint.
The city already feels like a place I could belong, Wash Park paths under my running shoes, mountains rising sharp to the west every time I look up.
“Headquarters would keep me operational,” he continues, thumb tracing the base of his glass. “Not deep cover. Not gone for months. Oversight, training rotations, the occasional short deployment. Enough to keep the edge without disappearing on you.”
I nod slowly, tasting the idea. Him coming home every night, still carrying the day on his skin, stripping out of tactical gear in the laundry room while I pretend not to watch the flex of muscle under ink and scars.
“Or I could transfer to the Hawkeye training facility in Nevada.” He studies me. “It’s remote, not many luxuries. But we’d be together more.”
The fire crackles. I watch flames dance across his face, the shadows carving sharper lines along his jaw.
“What do you want?” I ask, the question soft but pointed. I need to hear it from him, not guess.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes dark and serious.
“I want mornings that don’t start with a sat phone and a body count.
I want to fall asleep with you curled against my chest and wake up the same way.
I want to come home to you every night and know you’re safe, not halfway across the planet wondering if today’s the day I don’t make it back. ”
His words settle heavy and warm inside me.
“But I also know myself,” he adds, voice rougher. “If I go completely cold, I’ll get restless.”
I reach across the table, lace my fingers through his. His hand engulfs mine, calluses rasping over my skin.
“Denver,” I say. “Your condo. Headquarters. You stay operational enough to breathe, and I get you in our bed every night.”
He squeezes once, hard. “You’re more than I deserve, Lyra.”
The first course arrives—seared scallops in brown butter, steam curling up between us. As we dream about the future we’re going to create, more food follows.
This is one of the best nights I ever remember.
The waiter clears the last of the dessert plates—warm chocolate tart with a scoop of huckleberry ice cream that melted into perfect purple rivers across the china—and refills our wine one final time before vanishing with a discreet nod.
The fire has settled into a steady glow, embers pulsing like a slow heartbeat behind the screen. Outside the windows, snow has started to fall again, fat silent flakes drifting past the glass, erasing the valley one layer at a time.
We are both quiet, the kind of quiet that comes after hours of talking about everything and nothing at all.
I’m pleasantly full, with the wine humming warm through my veins.
Stryker’s foot has been hooked around my ankle under the table since the second course, his thumb tracing idle patterns on the inside of my knee whenever the conversation lulled.
Every touch feels deliberate now, like he has been waiting for this exact moment when the meal is finished and the room is truly ours.
He sets his glass down, the crystal base ringing softly against the wood. His fingers linger on the stem for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he slides them away.
Then he pushes his chair back, the scrape of wood on wood loud in the hush. My breath catches, sharp in my throat.
Stryker rises, all controlled power, and crosses the room in three deliberate strides.
I tip my head to the side, studying him, wondering what he’s up to.
His hand closes over the brass lock on the heavy door, thumb pressing down with a decisive twist. The click echoes through the quiet space, final and absolute, sealing us inside this warm cocoon of firelight and snow-muffled silence.
He tests the handle once, a quick tug that confirms no one is coming in, no one is interrupting what is about to happen between us.
Once that’s taken care of, he turns back to me, eyes dark and fixed. The air seems to thicken as it charges with expectation.
My pulse pounds now, hard and insistent in my throat, between my legs, a relentless drumbeat that matches the heat flooding my skin.
He returns to me, every step measured, deliberate.
“Styker?”
When he reaches my side, he drops to one knee, the motion fluid and certain, the firelight gilding the hard lines of his shoulders, the strong column of his throat.
Oh my God.
His hand disappears into his jacket pocket. When it emerges, he is holding a small black box.
My heart stops.
No.
He can’t mean…
With one thumb, he flips the lid open.
The ring inside is a single flawless diamond set in blackened platinum, simple and devastating, catching every flicker of flame and throwing it back like a promise.
I can’t breathe.
“Lyra.” His voice is gravel and smoke and everything that has kept me alive these past weeks.
He takes my left hand, his fingers trembling just enough that I feel it in my bones.
“I have spent my life running toward danger because it was the only thing that ever felt like home. Then I walked into a coffee shop and saw you watching the door like you expected the world to end, and I knew I had been running in the wrong direction.”
Tears sting my eyes.
“I love you.” The words fall between us, absolute. “I love the way you fight. The way you trust me even when every instinct screams not to. The way you taste when you come apart under my mouth. I love the life we haven’t built yet and every single day we are going to wake up and choose each other.”
His eyes search mine, dark and fierce and stripped bare.
“Marry me, Lyra. Be my home. Let me be yours.”
“Yes.” The word rips out of me before thought catches up. “I love you.” My confession spills out, fierce and trembling. “God, Stryker, I love you so much it terrifies me. Yes. Always yes.”
He slides the ring up my finger, slow, deliberate, the cool metal warming instantly against my skin.
Grinning like a fool, he surges up, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me like a man claiming a country he intends to rule with absolute devotion.
The taste of him—wine and chocolate and forever—floods my mouth.
His mouth leaves mine only long enough to trail fire down my throat, teeth scraping the pulse hammering there.
One of his big hands slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head exactly where he wants it.
The other hand drops to my thigh, and he pushes the hem of my dress higher, knuckles brushing the bare skin, deliberate, possessive. Heat coils low in my belly, sharp and immediate.
He stands without warning, hauling me up with him, my body pressed flush to his from chest to knee.
The chair scrapes back, forgotten.
His hands grip my hips, lift me effortlessly, and set me on the edge of the table. The linen is cool beneath my thighs, a shock against the fever of my skin.
Plates and glasses shift with a soft clink as he steps between my legs, forcing them wider, the fabric of my dress riding higher until cool air kisses the damp lace between my thighs.
He slides his palms up my legs, slow, reverent, owning.
He leans in, mouth at my ear, breath hot.
I look up at him, deep into his eyes. “Can we skip the condom?”
“Are you sure?”
My pulse spikes so hard I feel it in my throat, between my legs, everywhere. His eyes lock on mine, almost black with hunger, waiting. I’ve never been surer of anything.
I swallow, the word scraping out raw. “Yes.”
His groan is low, guttural, the sound of a man who has just been handed the world.
Once more, he crushes his mouth to mine again, swallowing my gasp as one hand slips between us, fingers hooking the edge of my lace panties and dragging them down my thighs in one smooth motion.
The fabric catches on his watch, tears slightly, and neither of us cares. He shoves his belt open with impatient jerks, the metallic clink loud in the quiet room, zipper rasping down.
I feel him, hot, hard, velvet over steel, nudging against me.
As he grips my waist and moves me into the position he wants, I clutch his shoulders.
He takes his time, making sure I’m ready. And I am, panting, desperate, needy.
Finally, with one slow, deliberate push, he slides into me bare for the first time, skin to skin, nothing between us but heat and want and the future we just promised each other.
The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming, perfect.
As I arch my back, my head falls back as he bottoms out with a hiss of breath against my neck.
Stryker stills for one heartbeat, two, letting me feel every thick inch of him buried deep, letting the reality sink in.
“Fuck, Lyra. You were made for me.”
Then he moves.
Slow, deep strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside me, his mouth on my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast above the neckline.
I wrap my legs high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
The table creaks beneath us, linen bunching under my shoulders as he drives into me again and again, the ring on my finger catching every flicker of flame with every thrust.
Home.
We’re home.
Finally, completely, irrevocably home.
And together, we’ve already started on our future.