Kyler #2
Keeping her breathing.
Building walls high enough that nobody could ever touch her again.
When she came back from South Africa, she was already shattered. There were nights she’d wake up gasping beside me, clawing at her own skin like she could still feel their hands on her.
I used to hold her until sunrise because neither of us knew what else to do.
And somewhere along the line, survival became the entire goal.
But surviving isn’t the same thing as living.
Some part of her stayed trapped in that compound because of me.
Dalton loved her differently.
He handed the world back to her slowly until she stopped being afraid to live in it again.
The back door opens behind us and the entire space quiets instinctively.
I turn before I can stop myself.
And there she is.
Ivy stands in the doorway in a white dress that moves softly in the breeze.
It’s lace and fits her perfectly, a slit rising the length of her ballet-toned thigh.
She wears a matching flower crown with Hadley, sunlight catching in her blonde hair where it falls over her shoulders and down her back in loose curls.
Lila says something beside her that makes her laugh softly, and the sound hits me square in the chest because I haven’t heard that version of her in years. She sounds free.
Her eyes find Dalton immediately. Always him now.
And the way her entire face changes when she looks at him tells me everything I need to know.
He smiles and she smiles back like it’s instinct.
I look away first.
Not because I’m angry.
Because for the first time, I think I finally realize what she was trying to find all along.
Hadley appears beside Ivy a second later, taking her flower girl responsibilities with terrifying seriousness. She gives the basket in her hands one final suspicious look like she’s preparing for combat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats, the ceremony is about to begin,” Lila says with an authority she must have mastered running the demo team.
And despite the ache still clawing through my chest, despite the selfish part of me that will probably always wonder what would’ve happened if South Africa never did, I make my way down the stairs and into the grass, choosing a chair toward the back.
The ceremony is short.
Small.
Perfect for them.
Hadley absolutely launches flower petals like she’s conducting an artillery strike and makes half the guests laugh quietly before Ivy even reaches the aisle.
Dalton cries first.
Not fully.
Just enough that he has to look down and scrub a hand across his jaw when Ivy reaches him.
She notices immediately. Of course she does.
Her hands find his without hesitation, squeezing tightly, and the look she gives him is so full of love it nearly levels me.
And I think that’s when I understand. She doesn’t love him because he saved her. She loves him because he makes her feel safe enough to save herself.
The realization hurts.
But it also sets something inside me free.
By the time the sun disappears, shoes have been kicked off, music is drifting softly through the backyard, and everyone’s a little buzzed.
Hadley falls asleep curled across my lap halfway through dinner, still clutching flower petals in her tiny fist.
I carry her upstairs, tucking her carefully into her bed.
She stirs slightly when I pull the blanket over her.
“Love you, Daddy,” she mumbles sleepily.
My throat tightens instantly.
“Love you too, peanut.” I stand there longer than I should after she falls asleep again. Trying not to think about how many moments like this I’ve missed already.
When I head back downstairs, the house is quieter now. Slower.
I step out onto the back patio and find Ivy standing alone near the edge, wedding ring catching in the soft light.
Her eyes soften the second she sees me.
And for one dangerous moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.
Then she walks toward me and wraps her arms around my waist.
I hold her automatically. Carefully. The same way I always have.
And fuck, muscle memory almost destroys me.
My body still knows hers. Still leans toward her instinctively. Still thinks, for one heartbreaking second, that this is my wife.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispers.
I close my eyes briefly. “There wasn’t anywhere else I’d be.”
Her arms tighten slightly around me.
And I know she understands what I’m not saying.
I loved you.
I will probably always love you.
But this isn’t ours anymore.
When she pulls back, her eyes are glassy.
Mine probably are too.
“You deserve this too,” she says quietly.
I almost ask her what she means.
Peace?
Love?
A future?
But before I can, movement catches my attention across the porch.
Dalton stands near the back steps watching us. Not tense. Not threatened. Just waiting. Trusting.
I look back down at Ivy and smile softly despite myself. “Go,” I murmur.
And she does.
She walks back to him like she was always meant to.
He reaches for her immediately, fingers sliding through hers.
And watching it hurts. Damn, it hurts.
But not in the unbearable way I thought it would. More like the ache of finally setting something down you were never meant to carry forever.
My phone buzzes in my pocket then.
I already know it’s work before I even check.
I pull it out anyway.
PROTECTIVE ASSIGNMENT CONFIRMED.
WHEELS UP IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS.
ISTANBUL.
FULL OPERATIONAL brIEF INCOMING.
I exhale quietly.
Then another message appears beneath it.
An attached file.
I open it.
Long light brown hair spills over one bare shoulder in effortless waves, indigo blue eyes fixed directly on the camera like she knows exactly what it does to people when she looks at them like that.
Sharp cheekbones. Full lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk.
The kind that says she’s used to being underestimated right before she becomes the center of the room anyway.
Scarlett Thomas.
The Secretary of Defense’s daughter.
International model.
Current location: En route to Turkey.
I scroll farther.
Runway photos. Magazine covers. Tabloid headlines.
Scarlett stepping out of a black SUV somewhere overseas wearing a silk dress probably worth more than my truck while paparazzi practically climb over barriers trying to get to her.
Fuck me.
I drag a hand down my face.
The Pentagon is seriously sending Delta to babysit a supermodel.
I keep scrolling.
The briefing notes mention escalating regional threats, attempted surveillance near her hotel in Istanbul, concerns about extremist groups targeting high-profile Americans overseas, and repeated recommendations from her security detail for her to skip Turkey altogether.
Recommendations she apparently ignored. Uncooperative. Independent. Refuses to alter public appearances. Continues unsanctioned travel despite active threat advisories.
Fantastic.
I stare at the runway photo another second.
Beautiful. Rich. Wildly out of place in a combat zone.
And somehow currently my responsibility.
My eyes drift back toward Ivy automatically, where she is dancing slowly beneath the string lights with Dalton’s hands wrapped around her waist.
She’s home.
For a second, grief hits me so hard I have to physically rub the pain from my sternum.
Not because I want her back. But because some part of me will probably always mourn the life we almost had.
Then Ivy looks over at me and smiles.
And somehow, instead of breaking me apart, it finally feels like enough.
I look back down at the picture on my screen.
At the sharp eyes. The reckless smile. The woman who looks like she’d either be the worst assignment of my life or the kind that changes everything.
“Fuck,” I mutter quietly.
Because I already know this assignment is going to be a disaster.