Chapter 29 Katherine
KATHERINE
I don’t remember sitting down, only that at some point the ground stops swaying beneath my feet and I’m on the edge of the porch steps, elbows on my knees, my hands clenched so tightly together they ache.
The air smells like damp earth, smoke, and something metallic I don’t want to name.
Dawn is breaking over the horizon, washing everything in soft gold that feels obscene after what happened here.
Bodies are being loaded into ambulances by men in gloves who move with practiced ease, zipping black bags, lifting them onto stretchers, and rolling them away.
Police cars line the drive, while unmarked vehicles sit farther out.
I recognize the look of federal presence now, the calm that follows something too big to be called an incident.
This wasn’t a fight; it was an ending.
I wrap my arms around myself as another stretcher passes, my stomach twisting.
I don’t know how many there are, and I don’t want to count.
My brain keeps trying to reconcile the peaceful ranch in front of me with the violence it absorbed overnight, like the land itself decided enough was enough and swallowed the threat whole.
Addison is beside me, and I don’t remember when she sat down either, only that her arm is around my shoulders, holding me together in a way I didn’t know I needed until now.
Her jaw is tight, eyes tracking everything with the same sharp awareness that got her through Mogadishu, Kenya, airports, and being hunted.
“It’s over,” she says quietly, more statement than comfort.
I nod, though the word feels fragile. Over doesn’t erase, unsee, or unknot the tight ball of fear still lodged under my ribs.
“He… Oh God, Addy. He…” My voice breaks, and I stop, swallowing hard.
I don’t let myself finish the sentence, because finishing it might make it real.
Addison squeezes my shoulder. “I know. It’s going to be okay.”
Across the yard, Hank stands with Jace and Cole, speaking calmly to a group of men in jackets that don’t have badges but don’t need them.
Tessa is nearby, tablet in hand, directing someone toward a section of the property, her expression focused and unshaken.
This is not their first crisis. This family doesn’t panic; they organize, and that realization hits me harder than the bodies.
A black SUV pulls away from the far end of the drive, another taking its place. Somewhere behind the house, I hear the low murmur of voices, clipped instructions, the machinery of cleanup grinding forward. Evidence is being cataloged, statements are being taken, lines are being drawn and erased.
Addison exhales slowly. “It’s all done now. The Morgans have sent a message, and anyone thinking of coming after us… they’ll think twice now.”
I look out over the ranch, over the stretch of land that swallowed a war and kept standing. I should feel safer. I do, a little, but the relief is tangled with grief for something I didn’t even know I was mourning—my illusion that the world could be less brutal than this.
My hands are shaking again as I stare at the ground, blinking back tears, when a shadow falls over us. A blanket settles around my shoulders. Before I can look up, my lungs fill with cinnamon, and suddenly, I can breathe again.
I know it’s him before I see his face.
My favorite scent wraps around me like a memory I refuse to lose, cutting through smoke, cold, and fear in one clean breath. My hands clutch the blanket tighter as if I might disappear without it.
“Hey,” Ryder murmurs softly.
I look up, and he’s standing right in front of me—alive, solid, and real—Julian tucked securely against his chest. Our son is bundled up and blissfully unaware, his tiny fist curled into Ryder’s shirt like this is the safest place in the world. Maybe it is.
For one suspended second, my brain refuses to cooperate.
I just stare at Ryder, taking inventory in a way that feels primal.
His face is pale but steady, there’s dried blood on the side of his neck that makes my heart lurch until I realize it’s not his.
His jacket is open, one arm held a little stiffly at his side, but he’s upright, here, and alive.
“You’re—“ My voice cracks completely this time. “You’re okay?”
He nods once. “I am.”
That’s all he says. No explanation or minimization, just the truth, delivered the way Ryder does everything else.
I surge to my feet so fast the blanket nearly slips, and suddenly I’m right there, pressing my forehead into his chest, careful of Julian but not careful at all with my emotions. My hands clutch his jacket, fingers digging in like I’m afraid he’ll vanish if I let go.
“You scared me,” I whisper, the words shaking out of me now that the worst has passed. “You scared me so bad I couldn’t breathe.”
“I know,” he murmurs, bending his head so his forehead rests against mine. His free hand comes up, steady and warm at my back. “I’m sorry.”
I pull back just enough to look at him properly, my eyes scanning him again, this time sharper. “You got shot.”
He exhales through his nose, almost a smile. “It hit the vest, and the old wound reopened. Adrenaline did the rest.”
“That is not reassuring.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Didn’t mean it to be.”
Behind him, Beck strides past with a grin that’s far too big for someone with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his arm.
“Battle scar,” he announces proudly when he catches me looking. “It’s just a graze. I barely felt it.”
Jace snorts from behind him. “You cried.”
“I did not.”
“You asked if it was going to leave a mark.”
“I was concerned about symmetry.”
Despite everything, a laugh breaks out of me—short, startled, almost hysterical—but it loosens something in my chest. The sound makes Ryder’s eyes soften as he looks back at me, like he’s memorizing it.
Addison appears at my side again, peering up at Ryder. “You look like hell.”
“Good morning to you, too,” he replies dryly.
She glances down at Julian, her expression melting instantly. “And you,” she coos, reaching out to brush a finger against his cheek. “You have no idea how close you came to losing your father.”
Ryder arches a brow. “I’m standing right here.”
Addison meets his gaze without blinking. “I know.”
Something unspoken passes between them: respect, gratitude, and maybe acknowledgment.
Ryder shifts Julian slightly, then looks back at me. His voice drops, just for us. “You’re safe. Both of you. I swear it.”
I believe him, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we’ve survived the worst of it.
The noise fades eventually. Not all at once, but slowly, like the world deciding it’s done demanding things from us. The engines shut down, radios go quiet, boots stop crunching against gravel, and what’s left is the soft, exhausted aftermath of survival.
Ryder doesn’t let go of Julian the entire walk back to the house.
I notice it in the way his arm never loosens, how his hand stays spread wide and protective over our son’s back, like the weight of him there is the only thing tethering him to the ground. I walk beside them, my fingers laced through Ryder’s free hand, anchoring myself the same way.
Inside, the house smells faintly of antiseptic, gun oil, and cinnamon—always cinnamon, as if Ryder carries it with him wherever he goes. Someone has already turned the lights low, another has made sure the doors are locked and the alarms reset. This family doesn’t do chaos; they do control.
Ryder leads us straight to the bedroom. The door closes behind us with a soft, final click, and the silence inside feels sacred. He lowers Julian into the middle of the bed first, then eases himself down beside him with a wince he tries, and fails, to hide.
“Hey,” I scold immediately, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. “Don’t even try to pretend you’re fine.”
“I didn’t pretend,” he mutters. “I stated a fact.”
I give him a look that would make lesser men fold.
Ryder exhales, the tension draining out of him in a way I haven’t seen before, and lets his head fall back against the pillows. “Okay,” he concedes. “I’m not fine, but I’m alive.”
“That’s not the same thing,” I counter, already tugging his boots off, my hands shaking now that the danger is past. “And you don’t get to scare me like that and then act casual about it.”
His eyes stay on me the whole time. “You can scold me all you want. Just don’t ask me to regret it.”
I pause, my hands resting on his shin. “I won’t. I just wish you didn’t have to pay for it with your body.”
He reaches for me then, pulling me down so I’m sitting against his side. His arm comes around me, solid despite the stiffness, and I let myself lean into him, my head resting against his shoulder.
Julian stirs between us, makes a small, sleepy sound, and Ryder’s hand instantly moves to soothe him, thumb brushing gently over his tiny chest.
“You saved us,” I whisper.
Ryder presses a kiss into my hair. “That was never in question.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “You scared me.”
“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.
“And you don’t get to do that again,” I add firmly. “You don’t get to be brave at the expense of staying.”
Something shifts in his expression then—an acceptance of some kind. “I’m staying. I’m not running anymore. Not from this. Not from you. Not from him.”
My throat tightens. “You promise?”
He leans his forehead against mine, eyes closing briefly. “On my life.”
I let myself believe him.
We lie there like that for a long time, the three of us tangled together, Julian between us like the proof of everything that almost went wrong and somehow didn’t. Outside, Iron Stallion stands quiet and unchallenged, a warning etched into the land itself.
Inside, for the first time in what feels like forever, I breathe. This is my family, and we’re still here.