Chapter 16 #2
“They are today.” His voice softened. “Get some rest. Heal. We’ll figure out Martin together. But not until you’re ready.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then something in her relaxed—the tension draining out of her shoulders, the fight easing from her expression.
“I’m going to be a terrible patient,” she warned.
“I know.” He reached out, tucked a strand of tangled hair behind her ear. “This’ll be fun.”
A soft knock came at the door. And then it opened.
Ham.
When he stepped inside, his eyes went to their intertwined hands, and a small smile crossed his face.
“Good to see you awake,” he said to Jayden.
“Good to be awake.” She didn’t let go of Dakota’s hand. “What’s the situation?”
“London’s handling the diplomatic fallout. Secret Service is doing their own investigation. They’re not happy about how close Martin got, but they’re grateful for the assist.” Ham moved to stand at the foot of her bed. “We’re clear to leave Australia whenever you’re stable enough to travel.”
“What’s next?” Dakota asked.
“I need to get back to Minnesota. Regroup. Figure out Martin’s next move before he makes it.” Ham ran a hand through his hair—a rare sign of exhaustion. “Whatever he’s planning, it’s not over. President White is still in his crosshairs.”
Movement in the doorway. West appeared, looking cleaner than the rest of them—he’d had time to change, to wash off the operational grime.
“And,” West said, “we have a wedding to be at in a month.”
Dakota looked at Jayden. “One of our teammates is getting married,” he said. “Key West.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Sun. Beach. Drinks with little umbrellas. Maybe some fishing.”
“And guess who is on the guest list,” Ham said.
Dakota glanced at him.
“Britta White.”
“The president’s daughter?”
“And half the Secret Service,” Ham said. He smiled. “But security is someone else’s job this time. We’re just guests.”
Sure they were.
But Dakota squeezed Jayden’s hand. “What do you say? Three weeks of recovery, then we fly to Florida. Celebrate with family. Pretend to be normal people for a few days.”
Jayden considered, her thumb tracing patterns on his hand. “Fine. One condition.”
“Name it.”
“Can we drive?” Her eyes glinted with something between trauma and humor. “I am never checking a bag again.”
Dakota laughed, the release of tension and terror and hope all tangled together. The sound filled the small hospital room, bouncing off the monitors and the white walls and the window where Sydney’s skyline glittered in the afternoon light.
Jayden laughed too, wincing as the movement pulled at her stitches, but not stopping. And for a moment—just a moment—everything was okay.
Ham shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll leave you two to your vacation planning. Try to stay out of trouble for at least twenty-four hours.”
“No promises,” Jayden said.
West clapped Dakota on the shoulder as he and Ham headed for the door. “Glad she’s okay, man. See you back home.”
Then they were gone, and it was just Dakota and Jayden in the quiet hospital room, the beeping of monitors a steady rhythm beneath their conversation.
“Key West,” she said, testing the words. “I’ve never been there.”
“You’ll love it. Water’s beautiful. Sunsets are incredible. Hotels . . . all five-star.”
“Mmm.” She was fighting to keep her eyes open now, the exhaustion finally catching up with her. “Stay with me?”
“Always.” He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Her eyes drifted closed, but the smile stayed on her face. “Dakota?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for saving me.”
“It’s what I do.”
He sat there in the quiet, holding her hand, watching her breathe, watching her sleep. Outside the window, Sydney sparkled in the afternoon light, the Harbour Bridge arching across the water like a promise.
Somewhere out there, sure, Alan Martin was planning his next move.
But right now—right here—there was just this. A hospital room in Sydney. A woman he loved. A future he was finally learning to have faith in.
Dakota closed his eyes and let himself sink into his happy ending.
The dock was cool beneath her bare feet, the boards still damp with dew.
Tiffany stood at the end of it, watching Lake Minnetonka wake up.
The water lay still as glass, catching the first gold of sunrise, reflecting the trees that lined the shore in perfect mirror image.
Somewhere across the lake, a loon called—that haunting, lonely sound that meant Minnesota in a way nothing else could.
Two weeks since Sydney. Two weeks since she’d nearly died in a different kind of water—salt and blood and the weight of the harbor trying to drag her under.
Dakota had stayed. Through the surgery, the recovery room, the endless beeping of hospital machines.
She’d drifted in and out of consciousness for the first three days, and every time she’d opened her eyes, he’d been there—in the chair by her bed, or standing at the window, or holding her hand while she slept. He’d barely left her side.
After a week, when the doctors finally cleared her to travel, he hadn’t taken her to a hotel.
Hadn’t sent her back to whatever safe house the Black Swans might have arranged.
Instead, he’d brought her here—to the Silver family home on Lake Minnetonka, where Selah and Chloe were visiting their parents.
Where the Jones, Inc., family could keep watch. Where he could stay close.
Take the time you need, he’d said, settling her into the guest room with its view of the lake. Figure out who you want to be next.
She’d looked at him—this man who’d jumped into Sydney Harbour for her, who’d held pressure on her wound while she bled out, who’d said I love you too, Tiffany like he meant it with everything he had.
What if I just want to be myself? she’d whispered. With you?
He’d kissed her forehead, gentle and sure. Then that’s who you’ll be.
Two weeks of healing. Two weeks of learning to be Tiffany again—not Jayden, not Lynx, just herself.
Two weeks of Dakota bringing her coffee in the mornings and sitting with her on the dock in the evenings, watching the sun set over the lake.
Two weeks of Selah’s quiet kindness and Chloe’s easy laughter, and the slow, steady work of becoming whole.
This water was different. Fresh. Still. Safe.
She touched the locket at her throat—worn silver, warm from her skin.
She’d carried it everywhere for three years.
Through missions and covers and a thousand hotel rooms where she’d been anyone but herself.
Through the turbulent flight where Dakota had held her hand.
Through Sydney Harbour, where she’d sunk toward the dark and prayed the most honest prayer of her life.
Save me.
And someone had.
Now she opened the locket with fingers that trembled only slightly. Inside, the tiny compartment held what remained of her sister—fine gray ash, almost nothing. All that was left of Skylar’s laughter, her prayers, her fierce belief that God was good even when the cancer was eating her alive.
“I’ve been carrying you for so long,” Tiffany whispered. Her voice sounded strange in the morning stillness—raw, real, unpracticed. “Everywhere I went, you came with me.”
The lake lapped gently against the dock pilings. A cardinal sang from somewhere in the trees behind her.
“I thought if I let you go, I’d lose you.” She touched the ash with one fingertip—so light, so impossibly light. “But you’re not in here. You never were.”
Skylar was in the worn Bible waiting on the Adirondack chair up on the lawn.
In the verses she’d underlined with yellow highlighter, the prayers she’d scribbled in the margins.
In the faith she’d clung to even at the end, when she was too weak to hold the book herself and Tiffany had held it for her.
“He will take great delight in you.”
Tiffany looked up at the sky—pale blue, streaked with gold, impossibly peaceful.
“Rest now,” she said softly. “I’ll see you again someday.”
She tipped the locket over the water.
The ashes fell like dust motes, catching the early light before they touched the surface. They dispersed slowly, spreading in soft gray spirals, and then the lake accepted them and they were gone.
Tiffany stood there for a long moment, tears slipping down her cheeks, the empty locket warm in her palm. She didn’t wipe the tears away. Didn’t try to stop them.
They were real. She was real. And that was enough.
She closed the locket and let it fall back against her collarbone. It felt lighter now—but not emptier. Just . . . different.
She was still wearing it when she turned and walked back up the lawn toward the house. She would always wear it.
Some things you carried forever. You just learned to carry them differently.
The Adirondack chair was warm with morning sun, the grass soft beneath her bare feet.
Tiffany sat and picked up the bible. The leather cover was soft from years of handling. The pages were tissue-thin, crowded with her sister’s handwriting in the margins. Notes. Questions. Prayers.
She’d turned to Psalm 40 without really meaning to, the words seeming to reach out to her, to find her.
“I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”
Skylar had underlined the words twice—once in yellow highlighter, once in blue pen. Next to them, in her sister’s loopy handwriting: “This. THIS. Remember this when it’s dark.”
It had been dark. In Sydney Harbour, with the water closing over her head and her strength giving out—it had been the darkest moment of her life.
But she hadn’t stayed in the pit. She’d been lifted out—by Dakota’s arms, by something larger than both of them. Set on solid ground. Given a firm place to stand.
She touched the scar on her left side through the thin cotton of her sundress. Still healing. Still tender. But a scar now, not a wound. Evidence of survival rather than ongoing damage.