Chapter 17
Wendy was waiting when Blizzard came through the door.
She'd arranged the room while he was gone—small touches that made the space feel less like a bunker and more like a home.
The rescued book from their first meeting sat on the nightstand.
Hemingway was curled on the pillow, orange fur bright against the white sheets.
A lamp she'd borrowed from the common room cast warm light across the walls.
Blizzard stopped in the doorway, his eyes moving from the book to the cat to her.
"You changed things," he said.
"I made improvements." She stood from the edge of the bed, crossing to where he stood. "Is it done?"
"Danny Straka's dead. Dante's got no one left." His voice was flat, but she'd learned to read the exhaustion underneath. "It's almost over."
"Almost."
"One more. Arthur himself. Then we're done."
Wendy reached up and touched his face—the hard line of his jaw, the scars on his ears, the places where ice had marked him years ago. He leaned into her palm like a man starving for warmth.
"Come to bed," she said. "Not for anything. Just... come to bed."
He let her lead him.
They undressed slowly, without urgency.
This wasn't like the first time—nerves and discovery, learning each other's edges. It wasn't like the second time either—adrenaline crashing, desperate proof of survival. This was something different. Quieter. More certain.
Wendy slid Blizzard's cut from his shoulders and hung it on the chair. He lifted her shirt over her head with hands that didn't shake. They moved around each other like a dance they'd practiced a thousand times, comfortable in the choreography.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly.
"You always say that."
"I always mean it."
She pulled him down onto the bed, settling against the pillows with his weight warm above her. Hemingway made a disgruntled noise and relocated to the foot of the mattress, tail swishing with feline judgment.
"He disapproves," Blizzard observed.
"He'll survive." Wendy traced her fingers down his spine, feeling the muscles shift beneath her touch. "I need to tell you something."
"Now?"
"Now." She met his eyes, letting him see everything. "When this is over—when Dante's gone and the danger's passed—I'm rebuilding the store."
Something flickered in his expression. Not surprise—he'd known this was coming. Something closer to hope.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not leaving, Victor." She used his real name deliberately, watching it land. "I'm not going back to the life I had before. I'm staying here. With you. With the pack." Her hand came up to cup his face. "This is my home now."
The closest thing to a smile she'd ever seen crossed his features. Not a full expression—Blizzard didn't do full expressions—but a softening around the eyes, a relaxation in the set of his mouth.
"Good," he said.
"Good?"
"I wasn't planning to let you go anyway."
She laughed, the sound swallowed by his kiss.
They moved together like the silence they shared—unhurried, deliberate, sure.
His hands traced paths across her skin that he'd mapped before, but now he lingered. Learned the places that made her breath catch. Memorized the sounds she made when he touched her just right.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured against her throat.
"This." She arched into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "You. All of it."
"You have it." His lips found the pulse point below her ear. "You've had it since you laughed at my joke about your cat."
"That was a terrible joke."
"You laughed anyway."
She had. In the middle of the worst weeks of her life, this man had made her laugh. Had looked at her chaos and seen something worth protecting. Had walked into her store looking for a book and found something he hadn't known he was missing.
"I love you," she said.
The words came easy now. Natural. A fact rather than a confession.
"I know." His forehead pressed against hers, his breath warm on her lips. "I love you too. In case that wasn't clear the first time."
"You said it when I was falling asleep."
"Bad timing."
"Terrible timing." She pulled him closer, wrapping herself around him. "Say it again."
"I love you, Wendy Callahan." He said it slow, deliberate, each word weighted with certainty. "I love your books and your cat and your stubborn streak. I love that you built a library in my clubhouse. I love that you looked at everything I am and didn't flinch."
Her eyes burned. "Victor—"
"I spent years thinking I was too cold for this. That whatever survived Afghanistan didn't leave room for anything warm." His voice dropped, rough with emotion he rarely showed. "You proved me wrong. You're the warmest thing I've ever touched."
She kissed him then—deep and slow, pouring everything she felt into the press of her lips against his. He responded in kind, his body moving against hers with a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing.
This time, there was no desperation. No adrenaline driving them forward. Just two people who'd found each other in the chaos and chosen to stay.
Afterward, they lay tangled together in the lamplight.
Wendy's head rested on Blizzard's chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns across his skin. His arm was wrapped around her waist, heavy and warm, anchoring her to him.
"Tell me about the store," he said. "What it'll look like when you rebuild."
She smiled against his skin. "You really want to hear about shelving arrangements?"
"I want to hear about whatever you're building."
So she told him.
She talked about the new layout she'd been planning—better flow between sections, more reading nooks, a dedicated space for local authors.
She described the cat tower she wanted to install in the mystery section, a proper kingdom for Hemingway instead of just a shelf.
She explained her idea for a community book exchange, where customers could trade paperbacks instead of paying.
Blizzard listened without interrupting, his hand stroking slow circles on her back.
"The romance section needs to be bigger," he said when she paused.
"You have opinions about romance novels?"
"Andrea borrowed one of the ones you rescued. Left it in the common room." He shrugged, the movement shifting her against his chest. "I read it."
"You read a romance novel."
"It wasn't terrible."
Wendy laughed—really laughed, the kind that shook her whole body. "Victor Cermak, biker and romance reader. The brothers would never let you live it down."
"The brothers don't need to know." But there was warmth in his voice, the kind he only showed her. "Besides, they're already convinced I've gone soft. One more thing won't matter."
"You haven't gone soft."
"No?" His hand stilled on her back. "I'm lying in bed talking about bookshelves. That's not the man I was six months ago."
"That man was freezing to death and pretending he didn't notice." She lifted her head to look at him. "This version's better."
"Yeah." His eyes held hers, gray and steady and warm underneath. "I think it is."
They were quiet for a while after that. The compound breathed around them—distant voices, engine sounds, the particular rhythm of a place that never fully slept. Hemingway crept back up the bed and settled between their feet, purring his approval.
"When do you want to start?" Blizzard asked. "The rebuilding."
"As soon as Dante's handled. I can't focus on shelves while he's still out there."
"That'll be soon. A few days, maybe less." His arm tightened around her. "And then you can build whatever you want. I'll help."
"You'll help me arrange books?"
"I'll help you do anything." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "That's what permanent means."
Permanent. The word settled over her like a blanket, warm and heavy and exactly right.
Blizzard fell asleep first.
It happened slowly—his breathing evening out, his grip on her waist loosening but not releasing, his body surrendering to exhaustion he'd been fighting for days.
She watched him in the lamplight, this man who'd killed for her, who'd thawed for her, who'd said I love you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She should sleep too. Tomorrow would bring more planning, more danger, more of the life she'd chosen when she chose him. She needed rest.
But the book on the nightstand was calling.
She reached for it carefully, trying not to disturb him. Mountain Warfare: Lessons from the Hindu Kush—battered spine, dog-eared pages, the same copy he'd bought the day they met. She'd rescued it from the wreckage of her store and brought it here as proof that some things survived.
Wendy settled back against the pillows, Blizzard's arm heavy across her waist, Hemingway's warmth between her feet. She opened the book to a random page and started reading.
Military history wasn't really her genre. But this book had brought him to her, and that made it worth understanding.
She read by the light of her phone, scrolling through pages she didn't fully comprehend, while the man she loved slept beside her and the cat purred at their feet.
Some habits defined you.
Reading in the dark, surrounded by the people who mattered—that was who she'd always been.
Now she was just doing it somewhere new.