Page 147 of Surrender to Me
We arrive at the restaurant tucked into the base of the slope, all warm timber beams and soft golden light spilling onto the snow.
Waving off the valet, the driver helps us out.
A second Hawkeye operative holds the door for us.
Inside, the air smells of woodsmoke and roasted garlic and something buttery that makes my stomach wake up.
With a warm greeting, the hostess leads us past the main room where couples lean close over candlelit tables, down a short hallway lined with black-and-white photographs of skiers in old wool knickers carving turns down runs that no longer exist.
She opens a heavy door onto a private room that feels like it was carved out of the mountain itself.
A single table waits beneath a chandelier made of antlers, candles already lit, flames dancing in glass hurricanes.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the valley, the lights of Winter Park scattered below us like someone spilled a box of stars across black velvet. The fire roars in a river-stone hearth, throwing heat that licks across my bare shoulders and down my spine.
The two Hawkeye operatives take up their positions outside the door, their silhouettes visible for a heartbeat before the heavy wood swings shut with a soft, final click.
Stryker pulls out my chair, knuckles brushing the nape of my neck as I sit.
His touch is deliberate, possessive, sending heat straight between my legs.
He takes the seat across from me, close enough that our knees touch under the linen cloth. The waiter pours wine—deep red, rich, tasting of black cherries and smoke—and tells us about the chef’s tasting menu.
We both agree to that.
With a polite nod, he vanishes as silently as he arrived.
For a moment we simply breathe, the fire popping, the snow ticking softly against the windows.
Stryker lifts his glass, eyes locked on mine over the rim. “To freedom.”
I touch my glass to his, the crystal singing. “To choices.”
We drink. The wine slides warm down my throat, pooling low in my belly.
He sets his glass down, but he keeps his fingers curled around the stem. “We have options now.” His voice is low, steady, the same tone he used the night he told me I was safe. “My condo in Denver is big enough for two. Rooftop patio gets morning sun. You could work from there, take whatever design clients you want, disappear into your screens when I’m at headquarters.”
I picture it instantly—waking up in his bed that smells of us and our love, sunlight pouring over the covers, my laptop on the kitchen island while he brews coffee strong enough to strip paint.
The city already feels like a place I could belong, Wash Park paths under my running shoes, mountains rising sharp to the west every time I look up.
“Headquarters would keep me operational,” he continues, thumb tracing the base of his glass. “Not deep cover. Not gone for months. Oversight, training rotations, the occasional short deployment. Enough to keep the edge without disappearing on you.”
I nod slowly, tasting the idea. Him coming home every night, still carrying the day on his skin, stripping out of tactical gear in the laundry room while I pretend not to watch the flex of muscle under ink and scars.
“Or I could transfer to the Hawkeye training facility in Nevada.” He studies me. “It’s remote, not many luxuries. But we’d be together more.”
The fire crackles. I watch flames dance across his face, the shadows carving sharper lines along his jaw.
“What do you want?” I ask, the question soft but pointed. I need to hear it from him, not guess.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes dark and serious. “I want mornings that don’t start with a sat phone and a body count. I want to fall asleep with you curled against my chest and wake up the same way. I want to come home to you every night and know you’re safe, not halfway across the planet wondering if today’s the day I don’t make it back.”
His words settle heavy and warm inside me.
“But I also know myself,” he adds, voice rougher. “If I go completely cold, I’ll get restless.”
I reach across the table, lace my fingers through his. His hand engulfs mine, calluses rasping over my skin.
