30. Ryan
ONE YEAR LATER
“ But it’s been almost one year,” Carsyn whines, her full lip jutting out in an adorable pout, despite the whininess. “I don’t wanna keep going.” She rests her hands on her hips, pressing her lips together.
“Get your boots on. We can ride there,” I tell her, looking down at my watch as I tuck my hat on my head. “You’re always happier when we ride there.”
“Ugh!” she groans, folding her arms over her chest. Her glare stings my skin in the best ways, and even though she’s angry, she’s still making me hot. Reading me as I tuck my phone and wallet into my pocket, she drops her arms to her sides and seductively strolls toward me. “We could stay home and fuck like animals instead.” She cups her hand to my hardening cock, stroking it over my jeans. “Oh, you like that idea,” she grins, wrapping her other hand around my neck to pull me into a kiss.
“When we get home, I’ll make you pay for all this teasing,” I warn her before sliding a hand up her shirt for a palmful of the best, softest, most perfect breast ever. Carsyn’s body is to die for, and truth is, I was willing to die for it last year.
“Make me pay now. Let’s skip it. C’mon. I’m okay, you know I’m okay,” she repeats.
“I’m leaving that choice up to Dr. Loomey. When she says you’re ready, you’re ready.” I kiss her cheek. “And until then,” I say, not needing to finish the sentence. Besides, I’ve said this to her the last twenty-five times she told me she doesn’t want to go to therapy.
One good thing to come from my time as an agent was learning when you need to offload some of your shit, and in response, receive tools and healthy coping mechanisms to work through it all. Carsyn watched Grafton Marks die, then she watched the man she loves get shot, and saw her brother murder his abuser.
People aren’t made to watch each other die. It’s bad for the soul, it infects the brain, it fills your blood with anxiety and your imagination with demons. Sleeplessness, loss of appetite, paranoia—I went through it all the first time I watched a man get killed. And then when a man died at my hands, I went through it all again, the only difference was, that time the Bureau put me in much needed therapy, along with a slew of prescription drugs to aid me.
It helped.
But Carsyn can’t take the meds, making therapy that much more important. She may not want to go, and I’ll give her this—her nightmares stopped about two months after everything happened. Still, shit like this can creep up on you and infiltrate you when you least expect. Therapy was a must, a non-negotiable, and as much as she loathes it, I know she feels better after. I also know she’s genuinely doing good, so until the doctor says she’s ready, she’s going.
“I don’t want to ride,” she finally concedes, slipping into her coat. “I’ll have to pee from the jostling and a fifteen minute ride will end up closer to half an hour, I’m sure.”
I put my hand on her belly, feeling my girl roll and kick beneath Carsyn’s skin. “She’s ready, that’s why.”
“And that’s why you’re fuckin’ me rough when we get back. To get her out!” She tips her head back, letting loose a frustrated groan. “I’m ready to see my feet, Ryan!”
I’ll never tire of my real name on Carsyn’s lips.
I can’t help but smile when she says it.
Carsyn Cole is my wife, and my child is inside of her, and we’re living together in our home. We got married soon, but no one took issue with it. Colton and Kinleigh were the most supportive, and they are deeply aware of how trauma bonds people, especially soul mates.
And Carsyn is my soul mate.
I can’t say that Forrest existing was a good thing, because of all the evil he did when he was earthside, but I can say I believe I was supposed to become an FBI agent, and it was kismet that led me to his case.
I was supposed to play the role of Garrison, and tell Kinleigh to get free. I was meant to protect Carsyn and leave the FBI behind.
I know it.
Because this life I live now, here on Beckett Farms, riding horses with my wife, tending to the new sheep farming business we’ve built, living in the quaint country home that makes me feel like I’ve been loved and safe my entire life, it’s goddamn perfect. And I refuse to believe something so perfect isn’t fate.
“You got all quiet,” Carsyn says after I help her into the truck, starting it up while the windshield defrosts. Puffs of warm air flood the glass, opening up visibility as the ice and cold are worn away. I look out at the land through the icy windshield.
“Just thinking about the other side of the property, the one closest to Colton’s place.” I look over at her, stroking my hand along my clean-shaven jaw. I had Garrison’s beard for so long that even though I’ve been clean shaven for a year, I still love feeling it. Every pass of my fingers over my smooth or stubbled jaw reminds me that I’m Ryan. I’m only ever gonna be Ryan anymore, and I like that.
“What about it?” she asks as I shift into drive and curve the truck around the drive, headed toward the main gravel road.
“I was thinking we lay a blanket down out there tonight, right at dusk, and enjoy the sunset together.” I reach across the cab and find her hand, bringing it to my lips. Dusting a kiss on her curled knuckles, I keep my eyes on the road when I say, “we could bring out some hot cocoa and make a small fire, have some smores and watch the moon light up the sky.”
Carsyn groans.
“Don’t like that idea?”
With a truck passing me, I don’t take my eyes off the road. “Cars?”
Finally, when the road is clear, I caution a glance at my wife and find her eyes wide, staring between her open legs. Beneath her, the gray fabric of the passenger seat is saturated. She looks up at me, fear and excitement in her eyes. “I win. No therapy today. My water broke. Take me to the hospital.”