A sound rips out of him. Broken, more sob than groan. He buries himself deep, and I feel him pulse inside me in hot waves. His forehead drops to my shoulder blade. His breath comes in ragged gasps against my skin.
His hand is still in my hair. He releases it gently, smoothing the strands he pulled.
For a long time, neither of us moves.
His heartbeat is slowing against my ear. I count the beats without meaning to, an old habit from when Chesca was a baby and I used to fall asleep with my hand on her chest.
We're lying on our sides now. I don't remember moving. His arm is heavy around my waist, his chest warm against my back, and the gauze on his knuckles is rough where his hand rests against my stomach.
We're alive, both of us. Adrian isn't.
I should feel something about that.
I feel his heartbeat. That's enough.
"I should check on Chesca." The words come out automatic.
"Sleeping." The word rumbles through his chest, into mine. "Mira's with her. I looked in before I came to you."
Even covered in blood. He checked on my daughter first.
"She was probably trying to teach Mira origami." Chesca's patient hands, her serious instructor face.
"Mira was still fighting with the paper when I checked on her." A low huff against my hair.
I press my lips to his chest, right over his heart. "Thank you. For putting her first."
"Always." His hand moves through my hair, slow and rhythmic. "She is yours. That makes her mine."
Our daughter.I press closer.
His phone buzzes against the nightstand, sharp in the silence.
"Kuso." He reaches for it, and I watch his face change. The softness draining away, his mouth thinning, his eyes going flat. He reads whatever's on the screen for a long moment.
"Kade?"
"Hai." He shows me the screen.
0600 briefing. We have a name.
twenty-seven
Cole
"What we do here. What I did last night." I keep my voice low. "We handle problems that cannot go through legal channels. People who are untouchable. Situations where the law protects the wrong side."
The elevator descends toward B4.
"I have questions," she says quietly.
"I know. Later. When this is done."
She nods. Files it away.
The doors open.
The command center stretches before us—wall screens cycling through data feeds, terminals arranged for maximum sightline coverage. The hum of cooling fans underlays everything, steady, constant. Vanessa's workstation dominates one corner, three monitors running parallel queries. Mira is already at the planning table, posture perfect, watching us enter.