14. Just Us
Just Us
Garrett woke up, and his first instinct was to prepare for a mission.
His eyes snapped open. His muscles locked beneath the covers.
His pulse spiked into a frantic, tactical rhythm before his vision had even cleared.
For weeks, waking up had been a high-stakes hazard assessment.
Where am I? What time is it? Did my body move?
What did I take? Where is Han? Where is Sydney?
He lay perfectly flat on his back, staring up at the white-painted wood of the cottage ceiling. The room was bathed in the quiet, golden warmth of a late Texas morning, completely still save for the soft rustle of the summer breeze through the window screens.
“Morning, Lad,” a deep, familiar rumble echoed from the absolute center of his soul.
Garrett let out a shallow, shaky breath as the Dragon King’s presence washed over his nervous system.
Han wasn't behind a stone wall. He wasn't trapped behind a monolithic door, and he wasn't screaming a warning from the other side of an abyssal void.
He was right there, whole, present, and radiating a comfortable Dragon heat that anchored Garrett to the bed.
Beside him, the sheets shifted. Sydney rolled over, her blond curls scattering across the pillow as she instinctively curled closer to his side, her warmth pressing against his ribs.
Through the raw, beautifully restored channels of their Mating Bond, her energy poured into him.
It was bright, unreserved, and entirely filled with a fierce, protective love and the best thing in the world.
Garrett flicked his eyes to the digital clock on the nightstand. 7:18 AM.
He had slept straight through the 3:42 AM corridor– hopefully without incident.
No more specialized neurological monitors were rigged to his headboard.
No more screaming digital graphs. No more Dr. Darcy Thorntree tracking his brain waves, and no more heavy wooden chair positioned in the hallway with his brother sitting vigilantly in the dark. Just sleep.
Still, a soldier didn't abandon a lifetime of tactical discipline just because life had shifted gears. Trauma didn't miraculously disappear because the Demon Lord had been severed from the line.
Garrett systematically ran through his own internal checklist. He lifted his hands from beneath the sheets.
They were clean. No dried gray clay, no phantom ink on his fingers.
He looked past the foot of the bed toward the bathroom floor.
His leather combat boots sat exactly where he had left them, in their bedroom this time, polished and perfectly aligned.
Then his gaze shifted to the top of the cedar dresser. Resting right beside Sydney’s jewelry box was a thin, vibrant strand of blue silk.
The sight of the hair ribbon punched him right in the chest, a sudden, heavy wave of raw emotion catching him off guard.
That tiny, ordinary piece of fabric had started the entire nightmare.
It had been the first breadcrumb, the first confirmation that his body was performing a mission he couldn't control.
Now, it was just sitting there in the sunlight.
The stolen objects had returned when the psychic architecture collapsed. Exactly how they had made the journey back from whatever impossible space Leviathan's road had occupied was something Ginnie intended to study for a very long time.
Garrett didn't particularly care.
Carrick had his tie tack. Ginnie had her fountain pen. Grey's pocketknife was back where it belonged.
And Sydney's blue ribbon was sitting safely in the sunlight, right alongside her hairbrush. How had he forgotten about the hairbrush?
The family had reclaimed its history.
"You checking inventory again?"
Sydney’s lazy, sleep-thickened voice brushed against his shoulder. She didn't open her eyes, but a soft, contented smile was playing on her lips as she traced a light circle over his chest.
Garrett cleared the gravel from his throat, his hand sliding down to tangle in her hair. "Maybe."
"My hairbrush is still here," she volunteered, her voice dropping into a playful murmur.
"Good," Garrett replied.
"Shoes too."
"Excellent."
"Underwear?"
Garrett turned his head on the pillow, leveling her with a dry, narrow-eyed smirk as her blue eyes finally blinked open, gleaming with a wicked, beautiful mischief. "Still accounted for," she grinned, propping her chin on his chest.
Then, the playfulness slowly faded from her expression, her features softening into something deeply analytical. She looked at him closely, then slowly nodded. "You slept."
Garrett looked back at the digital clock. "Apparently."
"All night," Sydney whispered, her thumb tracing his jawline. She leaned up, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to his cheek before delivering the piece of data that mattered more than any monitor reading. "You never left me, Garrett."
The weight of the words settled into his chest. He had slept through 3:42.
And for the first time since his rescue from the cells, he could remember exactly what had occurred during those thirty seconds: nothing.
Because there had been no thirty seconds.
No missing time, no hidden compartment, and no door. He had just slept.
Garrett went inward, dropping his awareness down to the baseline of their shared soul. “How was your night, Han?”
The Dragon King shifted within his mind, letting out a long, theatrical yawn that vibrated through Garrett's bones. “Boring as hell, Lad.”
Garrett froze. “Boring?”
“Aye,” Han rumbled, a deep, contented purr rolling through the bond. “No walls to claw at. No emerald smoke. Just eight hours of absolute, uninterrupted silence. Best damn night I've had in decades.”
A sudden sound rumbled up from Garrett’s throat, bursting out into the quiet bedroom before he could even think to contain the strategic barrier.
He laughed.
It was a real, full-throated, unburdened laugh that echoed against the wooden walls, a beautiful, violent release of every ounce of shame and fear he had carried across the threshold of Heatherton Homestead.
He pulled Sydney tightly against his chest, burying his face in her blond curls as she giggled beneath him, the raw joy of the moment completely rewriting the terrain.
An hour later, the reality of the victory required a final, practical realignment.
Walking up to the main house for breakfast, Garrett found his brother standing out on Carrick’s wide front porch. Grey was leaning against the wooden railing, a dual-cab truck already idling down by the gravel drive, packed for his and Star's return trip to Florida.
There was no giant emotional speech. They were Dragon Guardsmen. They didn't do long-winded vulnerability.
Grey didn't turn around as Garrett’s boots hit the porch steps. He simply reached into his canvas jacket pocket, pulled out the heavy, brass-cased folding pocketknife, and extended it backward over his shoulder.
Garrett shook his head immediately, keeping his hands in his pockets. "Keep it, Grey. It’s your asset."
"Was planning to," Grey chuckled, finally turning around to face him. He held the knife up into the bright Texas sun, turning it over once to catch the light. "Just wanted you to see it was returned. Not a single scratch on the casing."
Garrett offered a faint, fleeting smile. "Lucky knife."
"No," Grey countered, his voice dropping its teasing edge, turning into something deep, steady, and entirely authoritative. "Lucky brother." He stepped forward, his sharp gaze pinning Garrett to the spot. "Stop apologizing for surviving, little brother."
Garrett swallowed hard, the old armor trying to pull tight. "I'm trying."
"Try harder," Grey commanded.
He reached out, his massive forearm locking onto Garrett’s in the traditional, heavy clasp of Dragon Guard.
The physical contact was solid, a brutal, grounding confirmation of the bloodline connection that Leviathan had tried to use as a roadmap.
They held the lock for one long second, the silent brotherhood sealed between them, before Grey released his grip and stepped toward the porch steps.
Pausing at the top extraction point, he looked back over his shoulder. "Come home when you're ready, Garrett. The guys are waitin’."
The words mattered enormously. Garrett and Sydney had originally remained on the Heatherton property for a single tactical purpose: to heal and to hunt down and contain the anomaly inside his head. They had been tethered to the medical logs. Now, the perimeter was entirely clear. They could leave.
Carrick stepped out through the screen door a moment later, Ginnie right at his side. The renowned Guardsman looked down at the idling truck, then turned his wizened gaze onto Garrett. He didn't offer comfort or sympathy. He addressed a Guardsman who had just completed a deep-cover extraction.
"The Elder Council has been fully briefed on everything,” Carrick stated, his deep voice carrying the absolute weight of the Guard's command.
“Leviathan is severely wounded. Whatever happened when the road collapsed cost him dearly, and he's gone to ground. The Guard units along the coast will continue tracking his signature, but as of 0800 hours this morning, Garrett...” His gaze hardened. “He isn't your mission today."
Garrett bristled out of habit, his tactical training screaming at him to keep a target active in the theater. "Carrick, if he's recovering…"
"That's an official order, Guardsman," Carrick interrupted, a stern but deeply proud smile touching his face. "Stand down. Rebuild your parameters. Take your Mate and go home."
From the swing at the end of the porch, Sydney let out a soft snort of amusement, her fingers tracing the edge of her clipboard. "I like him. He gives excellent orders."
Garrett rolled his eyes, but as he looked back at the Elder, his gaze landed on Carrick’s stiff collar. Resting perfectly in the center of the fabric was the heavy golden mount, its brilliant red dragon scale glittering safely under the open sky.