Chapter 3 #2
Moira buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with what could either be mortification or laughter. “This is why we can’t have adult company,” she muttered, but there was no real distress in her voice.
As the twins scampered inside in pursuit of their father’s promised cookies, Moira stepped forward.
Her petite frame barely reached his chest. There was something inherently nurturing about her presence, a natural caretaker’s soul wrapped in a tiny package…
which was why she was the perfect Little for her Daddy Jagger.
She wrapped her arms around Crone’s waist as best she could with her swollen belly and gave him a gentle hug before rising on tiptoe to place a soft kiss on his cheek.
Drawing back, she cupped his face between her hands.
Her eyes searched his with the intensity of someone who could see past carefully constructed barriers.
For a moment, Crone allowed himself to be seen, really seen, by this woman who had become like a sister to him when she’d married Jagger.
But when understanding and compassion flooded her gaze, the familiar darkness crept in, and automatic defenses slammed shut.
A shadow of resignation crossed her features as he locked her out.
“Oh, Crone,” Moira sighed and dropped her hands. Ever the professional physical therapist, she smoothly transitioned to safer ground. “How’s the leg? And your hip? I know it’s been three years since your recovery, but I hope you’re not skipping your exercises.” Her tone carried true concern.
“The leg and the hip are fine, Mo. Everything works as it should.” He demonstrated by shifting his weight from one leg to the other, knowing she’d catch any hint of favoring or compensation.
Her trained eye assessed his movement. “No pain? No catching in the hip when you pivot?”
“None. I promise.”
Satisfied that he wasn’t trying to hide any discomfort, she nodded briskly. “Good. I’m going to dole out cookies and start dinner. You boys catch up.” With a final penetrating look that promised their conversation wasn’t over, she disappeared into the house.
Jagger stepped forward then, and the two men embraced in that particular way of warriors who had seen hell together.
It was a grip fierce enough to crack ribs followed by heavy pats on the back that spoke volumes of unspoken emotion.
The connection between them crackled like live wire, forged in blood and sacrifice as much as it was tempered by unwavering loyalty.
This was the man who had refused to leave him behind, who had moved heaven and earth to find him when others had given up.
“Damn good to see you, brother,” Jagger’s voice was gruff with emotion. “About time you dragged your sorry ass up here for a visit again.” The words were light, but the underlying message was clear: I missed you. I worried about you. Don’t stay away so long.
Crone’s throat tightened as memories flooded back, the ones he usually kept locked in the darkest corners of his mind.
Jagger was one of the few people on earth who truly understood, who had seen him at his absolute worst and still chose to call him brother.
They say real men don’t cry, but they both called bullshit on that.
The day they’d found him—God, he could still hear the controlled chaos of the raid, the sharp reports of gunfire, and the tactical commands echoing through stone corridors—he had been so far gone by then, hanging by threads of consciousness in that dank cell, that he’d thought the sounds were just another hallucination.
But then Jagger’s voice had cut through the haze, that familiar “Clear!” followed by a strangled, “Jesus Christ! Medic! Get in here now!”
The entire squad, all hardened warriors, had tears in their eyes as they worked to free him from the chains.
Cooper, the team’s medic, shook so badly he could barely insert the IV.
Martinez, their explosives expert, threw up in the corner when he saw the extent of the damage.
And Williams, who’d never once showed emotion in the fifteen years Crone had known him, openly wept as he helped stabilize Crone’s mangled leg.
But it was Jagger’s face he remembered most clearly.
He would never forget the raw anguish that had twisted his features when their eyes met, or the way his voice had cracked as he’d said, “I got you, brother. I got you.” His huge hands had been impossibly gentle as he’d cradled Crone’s broken body, mindful of the wounds and fractures that mapped two years of systematic torture.
Crone had cried then—deep, gut-wrenching sobs that tore through him with enough force to make his broken ribs scream in protest. Tears and mucus had run freely down his face as twenty-four months of carefully maintained control shattered in the arms of the man who wasn’t only his brother-in-arms but his best friend.
He’d cried for the pain, the fear, and the lonely nights when he’d prayed for death.
But mostly, he had sobbed because they’d come for him.
Against all odds, because Jagger had never stopped searching.
That moment still had the power to choke him with emotion, even five years later. The bond forged in that hellhole that day went beyond friendship and sodality. It was primal and unbreakable, written in blood and sealed with tears that no real man would ever be ashamed to shed.
“Yeah, well,” he managed in a voice rougher than usual, “someone had to come make sure you’re not going soft playing house in the mountains.” The deflection was weak, but he knew Jagger understood. Some emotions were too raw to face head-on, even now.
Jagger’s voice thickened as he responded with a forced laugh, “Soft, my ass. Wait till you see what Moira’s got planned for your stay.
She’s determined to put some meat back on your bones.
Claims she needs an eating buddy to help her eat for two.
” He squeezed Crone’s shoulder as his expression grew serious.
“You’re too damn thin, man. Living like a hermit isn’t doing you any favors. ”
Crone knew he was right. Gone were the bulging muscles he’d sported before being captured, when he’d lived on protein shakes and spent hours in the weight room chasing that bodybuilder physique.
His frame now carried a different kind of strength.
It was lean and whipcord tough from daily calisthenics and running the mountain trails near his cabin.
The years of torture and recovery had stripped away the bulk but hadn’t diminished the raw power in his body.
His muscles were defined and functional rather than showy, speaking more to endurance than brute force.
It was the build of a predator rather than a strongman—efficient and deadly in its own way.
Still, the concern in his friend’s voice hit home in a way few things could. Jagger had earned the right to speak such truths.