Chapter 17 KATHERINE
KATHERINE
I wake up warm, and that’s the first thing that feels wrong.
Warmth clings to me in a way I don’t recognize.
It’s not the thin, artificial heat of a motel room or the uneven chill of my apartment at night.
This warmth is steady and surrounding, like the air itself has decided to hold me together instead of pulling me apart.
Then I breathe in, and cinnamon fills my lungs. The scent curls through me slowly, like bark warmed by sun and earth after rain. It settles somewhere in my chest before my mind has fully caught up, and for a suspended second, I don’t remember where I am or how I got here.
My eyes open, and the ceiling above me is unfamiliar.
Steel beams intersecting with glass panels that let in pale morning light.
No cracks or water stains, and no soft, domestic clutter.
The room feels intentional and controlled, like everything in it exists because someone decided it should and nothing more.
My body registers next. I feel heavy, sore, and exhausted. My muscles ache like they’ve been wrung dry and left to stiffen, my head thick and foggy, the edges of my thoughts blurred. Bit by bit, the memories hit.
The road.
The worry.
The storm.
The rain that felt endless, punishing, soaking me through no matter how tightly I held Julian to my chest.
Oh my God! Julian!
The thought of my son hits me like ice water.
I push myself upright too fast, the room tilting sharply as my pulse spikes.
My heart slams against my ribs, drowning out everything else as my eyes fly to the space beside me, but it’s empty.
The blankets are rumpled where he should be.
No bassinet. No soft bundle of fabric. No tiny rise and fall of his breathing.
“No,” I whisper, already moving.
Adrenaline wipes away the fog in a brutal sweep. I swing my legs off the bed, feet hitting the cool floor as dizziness sways through me, but I don’t stop. My chest tightens painfully as I stagger out of the bedroom, barefoot and unsteady, fear overriding logic.
This house is quiet. Too quiet. My breathing is loud in my ears as I move down a hallway that opens into a vast living space—all steel and glass.
I look around, but he’s not in here either.
Panic claws higher as I move faster despite the way my legs protest, my heart pounding so hard it makes my vision blur at the edges.
“Julian?” My voice cracks, barely carrying.
I turn, scanning the space wildly, my body already bracing for the worst. For a reality I don’t have words for yet.
And then I hear it. A soft gurgle that’s unmistakably Julian’s.
I freeze, and the sound comes again, followed by the faint creak of wood shifting under weight.
I follow it toward the far corner of the room, each step slower now, dread mixing with something fragile and hopeful.
That’s when I see them, and relief floods through me in a rush so intense it burns, my eyes stinging as I press a hand to my mouth to keep from making a sound. I stand there, frozen, afraid that even breathing too loudly will shatter the moment.
James sits in a wide rocking chair near the windows, the morning light spilling over him in quiet bands of gold.
His head is tipped back slightly, eyes closed, exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face.
His hair is loose, falling around his shoulders, beard rough and untrimmed, like he hasn’t thought about appearance in days.
Julian is asleep on his chest, tucked against him like he belongs there—impossibly small and perfect, his tiny fist curled into the fabric of James’s shirt. His face is relaxed, mouth parted slightly, the steady rise and fall of his breathing unmistakable.
He’s safe. The realization hits me so hard my knees almost give out. They look… right, and that thought terrifies me almost as much as it soothes me.
The rocking chair creaks again, a soft, rhythmic sound that anchors me.
James is holding Julian like it’s instinctive. One arm is wrapped securely around his back, broad hand spanning almost the entire width of my son’s body, the other resting protectively over his legs. James’s chest rises and falls beneath him, steady and grounding—the kind of calm you don’t fake.
I close the remaining distance in three quiet steps, my hands already reaching out before my mind can catch up. My fingers brush Julian’s blanket, and James’s eyes open.
They lock onto me immediately, sharp even through the haze of exhaustion. I freeze like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. His grip on Julian tightens by a fraction—protective without being aggressive.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with sleep. “He just settled.”
I swallow hard, nodding quickly, pulling my hands back to my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to—“
“He’s been fussy,” he continues quietly, rocking the chair again, slower this time. “Took a while to calm him down.”
“How long have you been holding him?” I ask, my voice coming out barely above a breath.
“Long enough. He wouldn’t let me put him down. He cried each time I did.”
His answer makes something inside my chest fracture. I wrap my arms around myself to ground me to this moment. James studies my face for a long moment, his gaze unreadable, then shifts his attention back to Julian.
His voice softens when he speaks again. “You’re safe here, so why don’t you take a hot shower to warm up. You got pretty soaked yesterday.”
“Okay.” I nod again, because arguing feels impossible. “And then what?”
James’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Then we talk.”
I hesitate, torn between my instincts and his calm certainty.
Every part of me wants to stay right here, to sit on the floor and watch them breathe until I’m sure this isn’t a dream, but Julian is safe, and James—dangerous, silent, infuriating James—is not pushing me away. He’s anchoring us instead.
I step back slowly, giving them space. “Okay. I’ll be quick.”
“Take your time. We’re not going anywhere,” he replies, his hold on Julian tightening even more.
I turn around slowly and go back the same way I came. Only now do I realize that that’s the most James has ever said to me. So he can talk in full sentences and not monosyllables?
Every step I take echoes softly against polished concrete floors, unlike the creaky familiarity of my apartment back home. This place doesn’t apologize for existing. It stands exactly as it is—strong, angular, and unapologetically solid. It suits him.
Steel beams frame the open space, intersecting with reinforced glass that stretches from floor to ceiling, offering uninterrupted views of the mountains beyond.
The storm has passed, leaving the world washed clean, mist curling lazily through the trees.
Everything outside feels vast and untouched, wild in a way that mirrors the man who built this place.
This isn’t just a house—it’s a stronghold.
I pass a long wooden table scarred with use, not decorative but functional.
A weapons rack mounted discreetly along one wall, bookshelves stocked with field manuals, maps, and a surprising number of hardbound novels, their spines worn and familiar.
There’s nothing unnecessary here, nothing placed without intention.
Even the furniture feels grounded—heavy enough that it won’t move unless you want it to.
The hallway opens up toward a bank of windows, and I stop short.
Outside, cinnamon trees grow in a loose ring around the house.
Not decorative landscaping, but real trees.
Their barks are darkened by rain, leaves glossy and fragrant, the scent unmistakable now that I know what I’m looking for.
No wonder James always smelled like cinnamon.
It wasn’t cologne or coincidence. It was home.
Back in the bedroom that I assume is his, I walk into the bathroom, revealing another study in controlled luxury.
Stone tiles, a deep, glass-enclosed shower, and towels folded with military precision.
I strip, turn the water on, and step beneath the spray, heat pouring over me, warming me from the outside in.
My shoulders sag as the warmth seeps into muscle and bone, washing away the grime of travel and the phantom sting of rain against my skin. I brace my hands against the wall and let my head drop forward, eyes closing as memories flicker unbidden through my mind.
The road.
The fear.
The moment my strength finally gave out.
And then—James’s arms.
Strong, certain, and unyielding.
I swallow hard and finish washing, moving through the motions on autopilot. When I step out, I wrap myself in one of his towels—the fabric thick and warm, carrying the faint scent of him, wood smoke and cinnamon.
I dress in the clothes I find folded neatly on the counter—soft, oversized, and unmistakably his.
When I step back into the main space, the aroma hits me first. Something sweet and savory.
I follow the scent until I end up in the kitchen.
I pause at the threshold and watch James standing at the counter with his back to me, shoulders broad beneath a plain shirt, movements economical and quiet.
He doesn’t turn when he hears me. He already knows I’m there.
“There’s soup and bread. Eat,” he commands.
Without question, I take the seat he’s already pulled out for me. He sets a bowl in front of me, steam curling up between us, then retreats a step, leaning back against the counter like he’s giving me space on purpose.
The first spoonful makes my eyes sting. I hadn’t realized how empty I was until now, how much fear and adrenaline hollowed me out from the inside. I eat slowly at first, then faster, my body taking over while my mind lags.
James watches without staring, his attention steady and unblinking, but not intrusive. When I’m done and my hands have stopped shaking, he speaks again.
“Tell me.”
It’s more of an opening than a demand, so I tell him everything—from Addison’s first call, followed by her disappearance before she resurfaced with news of the list. I tell him about deciding to go on the run, packing in silence while Julian slept, about the road stretching endlessly ahead of me, while my mind replayed every what-if I’d tried not to think about for a year.
James doesn’t interrupt me once, but his jaw tightens harder the more I say. When I tell him about the three days it took me to get here, the moment I thought I might not make it, something dark flickers behind his eyes.
When I’m done, he takes a moment before asking, “And Addison?”
“I think she’s still in Somalia. I haven’t been able to reach her since.”
“How did she track me down?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
James nods once, like he’s already filing that away, while planning something I can’t see yet. He shifts then, his gaze dropping to where Julian sleeps in a portable bassinet near the fire. When he looks back at me, there’s something different in his eyes.
“It’s painfully obvious,” he starts slowly, like he’s stepping onto unstable ground, “and it’s stupid to even be asking this.”
My breath catches because I know what is coming next.
“But is he mine?”
There is no accusation in his tone, just a desire for the truth, so I don’t hesitate to give it to him. “Yes.”
James freezes, watching me, eyes dark and searching, like I’ve flipped his world upside down, which I have.
“His name is Julian James Ellington,” I continue softly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, and I didn’t know your last name, but I wanted him to have something of you. So I gave him James as his middle name. Same as yours, it seems now that I know that your full name is Ryder James Morgan.”
“Addison found that out, too, huh?”
I shrug with a small, sad smile. “My best friend is nothing if not thorough.”
He snorts at that, closing his eyes for a brief moment, like the weight of it finally caught up to him. When he opens them again, I realize one truth: nothing will ever be the same again.