Page 106 of Desperate Games

He carries me upstairs. Every step makes me feel more ridiculous—I’m not some fragile thing. I’m not. But in his arms? I don’t feel fragile. I feel… cared for. Cherished.

He nudges open the bedroom door with his shoulder, lays me gently on the bed, and tugs the blankets back. Then he disappears into the bathroom.

I hear the water running.

I should protest. Tell him I can clean up myself. That I don’t need him hovering. But my body is too heavy, too content. My mind is buzzing, but not in that anxious, spiraling way I’ve gotten used to.

When he comes back, he’s holding a warm cloth. He kneels at the edge of the bed, spreads my thighs, and cleans me carefully. Tenderly. Like I’m the most precious thing in the world to him.

Tears sting my eyes again, but these aren’t angry tears. They’re the kind that come when you realize maybe—just maybe—you aren’t alone anymore.

“You don’t have to—” I whisper, voice catching.

“Yeah, I do,” he says simply. His green eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “Because I love you, Andy. And taking care of you? That’s part of it.”

God. I can’t breathe.

He finishes, tosses the cloth into the hamper, then climbs in beside me. His arms are around me instantly, dragging me against the solid wall of his chest.

I rest my head on him, listening to the steady thud of his heart. It’s so loud. So strong.

So mine.

I lace my fingers over his ribs, careful of the scars there, and whisper, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I’ll try,” he rumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But you’re stuck with me, Wife. No more running. No more doubting. Just us.”

I should be terrified. It’s too much, too fast, too intense.

But lying here in his arms, wrapped in his warmth, I realize something that scares me even more.

I don’t want to run. Not anymore.

Chapter Thirty-Five-Remy

Life is good.

No—life is fucking beautiful.

My wife loves me.

Andrea Falco. My Andy. My girl.

I swear, I smile a thousand times a day just thinking about it.

Sure, my father-in-law still looks at me like he’s trying to decide which knife in his collection would do the job fastest, but I’m okay with that.

Because I know if he actually stabbed me, Andrea would never forgive him. And I can live with Andres Ramirez's side-eye if it means my wife curls against me at night, her belly warm against my side, her heartbeat steady under my hand.

She loves me.

And that love? It’s better than any medal, any title, any mission I’ve ever survived.

I miss our morning rides together, but I can’t say I’m unhappy she quit her job at Volkov Towers.

She’s taking pictures now—dozens of them. Everywhere. Of everything.

I don’t love her in the darkroom, not when she’s pregnant, not when those chemicals sting my nose the second I walk in.