Page 59 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Blue

T hree days later, we were home.

Faron was out of surgery—stitched up, cranky, and already refusing pain meds like a stubborn mule. Cyclone had a cracked rib. Gage was moving slow but alive. Grayson would need physical therapy, but he grinned like he’d hit the jackpot every time someone handed him a plate of real food.

And me?

I was curled up on the couch in Faron’s beach house, barefoot in his favorite T-shirt, sipping tea while watching Bear go completely feral with joy.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Faron muttered, swatting half-heartedly at Bear’s tail as it thumped into his bandaged shoulder for the third time.

Bear barked, licked his face, then launched himself back into Faron’s lap like a furry torpedo made of love and chaos.

“I think he missed you,” I said, laughing as Bear nearly headbutted Faron into next week.

“Missed me? He’s trying to take me out.”

“You should’ve seen him the night you left. Slept by the door. Wouldn’t eat. I think he thought I locked you out.”

Faron looked at me, and something shifted in his eyes. “Did you tell him you put me back together?”

I swallowed hard, caught off guard by the emotion bubbling up. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know.” He reached over and pulled me close, Bear wedged between us like a snoring, wiggling pillow. “But knowing you would come for me? That gave me something to fight for.”

“You’ve always had something to fight for.”

“Not like this.”

He kissed my temple, warm and soft. Bear barked in protest and tried to wedge his face between ours.

“Jealous?” I asked.

Faron chuckled. “He’s so jealous he’s ready to press charges.”

“I might have to lock him in another room.”

“Don’t threaten him with a good time.”

We sat in comfortable silence. The soft crash of waves outside. The old house creaking as it settled. Bear finally curled into a ball, snoring like a chainsaw wrapped in a blanket.

River had stopped by earlier to say the clean-up had begun. The traitors were exposed. Kash and Conner were heading home soon.

We were safe.

Faron’s fingers traced slow, lazy circles on my thigh. “You know you’re never leaving my sight again, right?”

“You say that now,” I smirked, “but wait until I start reorganizing your kitchen.”

His lips tugged into a lazy smile. “Deal. As long as you stay.”

I leaned in, pressing my forehead to his. “I’m not going anywhere, Lightfoot. Not now. Not ever.”