Page 144 of Surrender to Me
Then he speaks, voice low enough that the pines themselves seem to lean in to hear.
“He gave his life to save yours.” His words settle between us like a vow carved in stone. “I’ll never forget him either.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Something inside me that has been clenched tight for weeks, maybe years, finally lets go.
A sob breaks free, raw and ugly and healing all at once. Stryker pulls me into him without hesitation, arms wrapping around me so completely that the cold cannot find me anymore.
I bury my face in the warmth of his neck, breathing in cedar and snow and masculine spice that never quite leaves his skin. My tears soak into his collar.
He cups the back of my head, holding me like I am the most precious thing he’s ever seen.
I cry for the man I never got to thank. For the years I spent running and the ones he spent watching over me from the shadows. I cry because someone else has finally said his name out loud and meant it. Because Stryker understands that remembering is a kind of resurrection.
When the storm inside me quiets to shuddering breaths, he doesn’t let go. He simply shifts, sitting back against the tree trunk and pulling me into his lap, my legs straddling his thighs, coat open between us so I can feel the furnace of his body. Soothingly he slides his hands up and down my back, until the trembling stops.
I lift my head.
His eyes are red rimmed but dry. The look he gives me is fierce and tender and absolute.
I press my forehead to his.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He brushes his lips over mine, soft, reverent. “Anytime, Lyra. For the rest of my life.”
The words settle into me like the first warm day after winter, like sunlight on skin that has forgotten what gentle feels like.
I kiss him then, slow and deep, tasting salt and snow and the promise of tomorrow.
Behind us, Remy’s name glints in the snow for a moment longer, letters sharp and perfect.
Then the wind shifts, and the branches above us release their burden in a soft cascade of powder that covers the writing, gentle as a blanket.
He’s finally at peace.
The quiet is shattered by the insistent vibration of Styker’s phone.
“Damn it, Lyra. I’m sorry for the interruption.”
I shake my head. “Don’t apologize.” We’re lucky we’ve had so much uninterrupted time together.
He checks the device. “Headquarters.” He thumbs to the text message and reads it, then looks at me.
“Hawkeye needs a video call in half an hour.”
My chest tightens.
“Let’s move.”
Chapter Forty
Stryker
I stand in the small office the onsite Hawkeye operatives have claimed as a command post, the one with the satellite uplink that never drops a signal no matter how hard the wind howls.
The fire in the main room still crackles faintly through the closed door, but in here, the only light comes from the bank of monitors and the cold white glow of the laptop screen.
