Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
NEW ORLEANS
The house was still.
Rain tapped lightly against the tall windows overlooking the courtyard, softer than the storm raging halfway across the world.
The Montgomery home carried the faint scent of jasmine drifting in from the garden, mingling with the clean, clinical trace of antiseptic from Hunter’s go bag resting near the entryway.
Doing his coming-home ritual, Hunter stood in the doorway of Beatrix’s room and watched his daughter sleep.
She lay on her stomach, one arm curled beneath her cheek, dark lashes resting against skin that looked far too peaceful for the world she had entered nearly five years ago. Africa surfaced without permission.
The plague tents. The oppressive heat. Fever charts stacking higher by the hour. Selma’s premature labor in a field hospital that barely held together under the weight of infection and desperation.
Five years since he thought he was going to lose them both. His side ached faintly. The familiar echo of the bullet that tore through him in Germany. Of finishing Dante Olivetti’s transplant in DC while his own body screamed for rest. Stopping had never been an option.
The phone vibrated in his hand. It was a secure line. He stepped into the hallway and closed Beatrix’s door gently before answering, “Montgomery.”
“Kieran.”
Hunter’s posture sharpened instantly. “What’s happened?”
“Flu outbreak on Kasavoa,” Kieran said without preamble. “Rapid progression to pneumonia in severe cases. Cross-contamination from Tevenne Island confirmed. Harbor’s partially closed due to a storm.”
Hunter processed that quickly. “How contained?”
“Unclear. Surge potential is high. One ventilated already. One death. More likely incoming.”
His voice cooled. “Who’s on the ground?”
“You know damn well the clinic is led by Eira. Ian and I do speak to each other.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened slightly. “And?”
“Cox is on the island. He’s initiated a volunteer medical mobilization.”
Hunter went still. “Cox?” he repeated. “Didn’t he just collapse in ops? Pete sent out that letter saying only he could return him to duty.”
“Yes.”
Ford Cox did not escalate lightly. He did not mobilize from recovery status unless something warranted it.
“Who’s deploying?” Hunter asked.
“Volunteer call active. Infectious disease specialists, medical personnel, security, field logistics. Negative-pressure tents. We need medical operational command in theater.”
“And you’re calling me.”
Kieran blew out a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Did Cox request me?” Hunter asked.
“He did.”
That stilled something deeper. Hunter’s gaze drifted toward the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall. “Does he know?”
“Know what?” Kieran replied.
“The connection,” Hunter said evenly. “Does Ford know Eira is my sister?”
There was the faintest pause on the line before Kieran answered, “Not unless she told him or he figured it out.”
Hunter absorbed that. “And does she know,” he continued, voice measured, “that I was specifically requested?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence lingered as he evaluated variables not listed in any deployment brief. “How bad?”
“Bad enough that Cox broke his recovery protocol,” Kieran replied. “Bad enough that he didn’t wait for formal authorization.”
That said more than numbers could.
“How many pediatric cases?” Hunter asked.
“Unknown. There is an orphanage attached to the clinic. Fifty-one minors at last count.”
That shifted everything. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the decision was made. “Send me the full data package. Viral sequencing, inflammatory panels, current vent capacity, staffing grid. I want a preliminary containment architecture drafted before wheels up.”
“You’re in?”
“Yes.”
A slight exhale of relief came through the line. “ETA?”
“Within twenty-four hours.”
“Hunt…”
“Yes?”
“This is voluntary.”
Hunter didn’t hesitate. “I’m aware.”
The line disconnected. He remained in the hallway, listening to rain and the faint rhythm of his daughter’s breathing through the closed door.
Selma appeared at the end of the hallway, robe loosely tied, eyes already reading him. “You’re standing like you’re about to scrub in.”
“Kasavoa,” he replied. “Flu outbreak. Escalating.”
She stepped closer. “Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“Is this Africa again?”
“No,” he said steadily. “Different strain. Natural mutation. But aggressive.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Who requested you?”
“Cox.”
Her expression shifted slightly at that name. “And Eira?”
“She may or may not know I’m coming. And we don’t know if Ford knows.”
She stepped into him, pressing her forehead against his chest.
Hunter’s gaze drifted once more toward Beatrix’s door. “I won’t lose anyone this time.”
Selma’s hand tightened at his side. “You can’t promise that. You can only show up and do what you always do.”
He wrapped his arms around her. Somewhere across the ocean, a storm was closing in on an island he had never seen. His sister was standing in it.
THE VILLA
He leaned his forearms on the kitchen counter, staring at nothing. The thought arrived without drama or warning.
Oh god. I’m not beginning to love her. I do love her.
The realization hit like a misstep on solid ground. It was subtle, disorienting, and undeniable. He closed his eyes briefly, letting it settle instead of fighting it.
He had fallen in love in the middle of a storm, in a clinic that never slept, with a woman who carried entire lives on her shoulders and never asked for help.
This was inconvenient.
This was already done.
He exhaled slowly and pushed away from the counter, then moved down the hallway and slipped back into the bedroom as quietly as possible.
The room was dim, the storm-muted light barely touching the edges of the furniture.
Eira lay curled on her side, breathing deeply and evenly, the tension gone from her body in a way that told him she was truly asleep.
He reached for her watch on the bedside table and turned the alarm off. His phone remained in his hand. The secure alerts were active, volume low but immediate. If anything shifted, he would know. He placed it on the bedside table. Carefully, he slid into the bed beside her.
She stirred almost instantly, drawn to him even in sleep. Her back pressed into his chest. His arm settled around her waist instinctively.
Within seconds, her breathing synced to his. For a while, he stayed awake, listening to the rain, to the miracle of rest. Soon, sleep found him too.
It was dark when she woke. The storm had softened into a distant murmur, rain tapping gently against the glass. The room was wrapped in that in-between hour with no demands pressing at the edges.
She lay still at first, registering the warmth. His arm was wrapped around her. She didn’t feel lonely when she opened her eyes. She turned slowly in his arms.
His eyes opened without confusion, his hand tightening slightly at her waist as if to anchor her. “You okay?”
“Yes. You let me sleep.” She grabbed her watch. “My alarm.”
“I turned it off. All is calm at the clinic.”
“Thank you.” She leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his, breathing him in. Her hand slid up his chest, fingers splaying over his heart.
He kissed her then, slow, unhurried, and deeply familiar. The kind of kiss that spoke of safety and want all at once. She moved closer, fitting herself against him as if she belonged there.
For a while, the world narrowed to shared warmth, whispered breaths, and the steady reassurance of being held and chosen. No alarms sounded. No radios crackled.
Outside, the storm continued.
Ford shifted slightly, preparing to rise.
Eira’s hand closed around his wrist. “Don’t.”
He stilled immediately. Her voice wasn’t sleepy or casual. It was braced. He turned back toward her. “What is it?”
She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around her without thinking. The room suddenly felt smaller. “I heard you.”
“Heard what?”
“You speaking to Kieran.”
He held her gaze. “How much?”
“Enough.” She folded her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together in a way he’d never seen. Eira Montgomery did not fidget. “He knows,” she said. “You know.”
“We do,” he answered evenly.
Her breath caught. “I didn’t want it to be known. Not here. Not like this.”
He waited.
“I’m Hunter Montgomery’s baby sister.” The truth, once spoken, didn’t shatter the room. It settled into it.
“I figured it out.”
Her head snapped up. “When?”
“You denied it when I asked, but I saw the photo on your desk earlier today.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “I didn’t mean for you to find out that way.” Her breath began to thin, her shoulders drawing inward in a way he had never seen.
She stayed against him for a long moment, breathing unevenly, gathering something she had kept buried for years. “When Jonah died, I ran.”
Ford didn’t interrupt.
“I couldn’t bear it,” she continued. “The loss and the emptiness after. The worst was the way everyone looked at me like I should have been able to save him.”
Her fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt. “Hunter is a gifted surgeon. He is the kind of doctor who walks into chaos and bends it back into order.” A fragile breath left her. “But I couldn’t save the man I loved.”
The words fractured at the edges.
“I was there. I had the training. I had the knowledge. I did everything right.” Her voice thinned. “And it wasn’t enough.”
Ford’s hands remained steady at her waist. He listened.
“Afterward,” she whispered, “every time I thought of seeing Hunt, I’d remember what I wasn’t. He saves people. He pulls them back from the edge. I failed.”
She shook her head faintly. “He had a staff position for me. He wanted me to work for him. I couldn’t hear well-meaning reassurances about fate or timing or statistics.” Her jaw tightened. “Jonah wasn’t a statistic.”
“No,” Ford answered. “No one who is lost ever is.”