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Epilogue

Six Weeks Later

Weeks had crawled by with the torture of time moving both too fast and too slow. Days blurred together at Dynamis—briefings and debriefings, after-action reports, coordinating with Mexican federal authorities as they rolled up what remained of the cartel’s network. Cal’s virus had done its work beautifully, copying every byte of data before destroying it, giving the DOJ enough evidence to issue warrants in three countries.

Marguerite had returned to San Antonio after two weeks, insisting she needed the routine and structure of convent life to heal. Elena had driven down to see her twice, sitting in the visitors’ parlor while her niece served tea with shaking hands and talked about anything except what had happened. The bruises faded. The nightmares didn’t. But Marguerite was alive, was safe, was surrounded by sisters who prayed for her and with her and asked nothing she couldn’t give.

It would have to be enough.

Elena had thrown herself into work with a determined focus that kept thoughts at bay. Twelve-hour shifts monitoring operations across three continents. Training sessions in the gym until her muscles screamed. Dinners grabbed from the commissary and eaten at her desk while analyzing intel reports. Anything to avoid the quiet of her apartment, the empty space where Brock should have been.

He’d left three days after they returned from Mexico. Some classified operation in the Middle East that Atticus couldn’t discuss and Brock couldn’t delay. She’d understood—it was his job, his contract, his duty to the team that still needed him. But understanding hadn’t made his absence easier.

They’d talked when they could. Satellite phone calls that cut out mid-sentence, emails that couldn’t say anything real because of security protocols, one video chat where the connection was so bad they’d ended up just staring at each other’s frozen faces and laughing at the absurdity of it.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Elena had discovered that she’d gotten used to him—his presence, his touch, the way he looked at her like she was both strong and precious. Had gotten used to falling asleep in his arms and waking up to his face. Had gotten used to not being alone.

And now alone felt wrong.

She’d left work early today—something she never did—claiming a headache that wasn’t entirely a lie. Her apartment had felt too quiet, too empty, too much like the sterile way station it had always been. She’d changed into yoga pants and a T-shirt, pulled her hair into a messy knot, tried to distract herself with the intelligence report spread across her coffee table.

Elena heard the knock at her apartment door and her brow furrowed in irritation. She was off the clock after working a twelve-hour shift. Atticus was good about protecting the time off the clock unless it was an emergency. She frowned again at the report spread across her coffee table and went to open the door.

“Surprise,” Brock said, standing in front of her in black BDUs and his duffle bag.

Six weeks. Six weeks since Mexico. Six weeks since she’d seen him.

The dark T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders should have been illegal. His hair was longer than she remembered, his face shadowed with stubble. He looked exhausted and beautiful and here.

She pulled him inside and kissed him before he could say anything else. His arms came around her immediately, lifting her off her feet as he kicked the door shut behind him. The duffle bag hit the floor with a thud neither of them noticed.

“I missed you,” she said nipping at his bottom lip.

“God, I missed you too.” His hands moved through her hair, down her back, relearning the shape of her. “I thought about doing this every day, of touching you again. You’re like a drug, and now that I’ve gotten a taste of you I can’t quit.”

She could feel the hunger in him, the barely controlled need that matched her own. Six weeks of wanting, of remembering how they fit together, of nights spent alone when they should have been wrapped around each other.

“Bedroom,” she managed between kisses.

“I’ll see if I can make it,” he said, groaning as her mouth found his ear. “The floor isn’t looking too bad.”

Not breaking the kiss as he carried her to the small, cozy room that smelled of her. They made it to the bed in a tangle of limbs and urgent hands.

His mouth found the pulse point in her throat.

Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, needing skin, needing him. “Hurry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and then there were no more words.

Later, Elena lay with her head on Brock’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling his fingers trace lazy patterns on her shoulder. The afternoon sun filtered through her bedroom curtains, painting everything in soft gold.

“How’s Marguerite?” he asked.

“Good. She went back to the convent in San Antonio two weeks ago.” Elena’s hand moved across his ribs, still marveling that he was here, real, solid. “She’s healing. Slow, but healing. She said being with the other sisters helps. The routine, the prayer. It gives her structure while she processes everything.”

“And you? How are you?”