The following series of bonus scenes (to be released weekly from now until the end of 2023) takes place between Protecting His Target and Defending His Hope.
You have been warned. Spoilers may abound.
Ryker
I shoot to my feet, the nightmare so real, the city skyline outside the window confuses me for a full minute before I get my bearings.
Wren hasn’t stirred, one arm curled around her belly. Pulling the comforter up to her neck, I lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head. The scent of honeysuckle helps ground me in reality. Enough to let me stumble into the living room. Away from her. She sees enough of my darkness, and though her morning sickness has mostly passed, she hasn’t been sleeping enough.
The lights on the Christmas tree glow softly. A pile of presents waits for tomorrow. For Dax and Evianna. Ripper and Cara. West and Cam. Inara and Royce. Graham and Q. Every day this week, another delivery arrived. Wren wouldn’t let me wrap any of them. Said this was her favorite time of year and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.
Our first Christmas together was private. Just the two of us. We had a tiny tree in the corner of the bedroom with so many lights, its branches bowed under the weight. I didn’t know what to do. How to be…festive. I still don’t.
But she does. The tree is taller than I am, with a bright blue T.A.R.D.I.S. perched on top. A huge container of frosted Christmas cookies sits on the counter, ready for morning. I sneak one and sink down on the couch. From here, I can see the waterfront. The Seattle Wheel is lit up in red and green, even at 3:00 a.m.
“You’re going to freeze.” Wren snags the blanket from her recliner and drapes it over me before snuggling against my side. “And those cookies were supposed to be off limits.”
I check for crumbs. “I only had one. And you should be sleeping.”
“Tell that to your daughter.” Wren reaches for my hand and places it over her belly. A little foot—or fist—impacts my palm. “She’s been dancing on my kidneys since midnight. What woke you?”
I rub my fingers over my bald head. The scars from fifteen months of torture are rough under my palm. “The usual.”
“Ripper? Or Dax?” She presses closer, and her scent wraps around me. “Or…?”
“Dax. When I…left him.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. “If I’d taken him with me—“
Wren cups my cheek, her thumb skating just under my right eye. “You went back for him, soldier. And now, he’s in a hotel less than a mile away. With his wife. Ripper and Cara are two floors below us. You did what you had to, Ry. And because of it, we’re here. Together. A few months away from having a freaking baby.”
The wonder in her voice soothes the rough edges of my soul. “What about Lily?”
“Lily?” Wren rubs her belly and stares at the Christmas tree, her eyes unfocused. “She’s not a Lily. Maybe Honor?”
“I’ll put it on the list.”
She rests her head on my shoulder. “One of these days, you need to write this list down. One of us doesn’t have your memory.”
“Ava, Eden, Emma, Evelyn, Grace, Harper, Holly, Honor, Madelyn, Melody, Mila, Nora, Olivia, Rebecca, Riley, Serenity, Violet, and Zoe.”
“Show off,” she mutters. “If I didn’t already have Mommy Brain, I’d try your lessons again. What do you think, little one? Any of those names sound good?”
We sit in silence for so long, Wren falls asleep in my arms. She’s so sure she’s going to know. That when we land on the right name for the kid, it’ll be instantaneous. Me? I’m not sure about anything. I still think our daughter is going to hate me. How will I even hold her if the sight of my face terrifies her?
Wren quiets more of my nightmares than I thought possible. With her, I’m…not whole, but…at least I’m not quite so broken.
So on this Christmas morning, when my entire extended family—and a few strays we’ve taken in along the way—is showing up at Hidden Agenda in a little over eight hours—I’ll trust her to keep me together.
*** (Scroll up to read Part 1)
The warehouse is already filled with the smells of cooking by the time we arrive. Cara—the chef—and West have been working for days to get things ready. Turkey, ham, a marinated tofu-something-or-other, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, curry, rolls, at least three different vegetables, pies, figgy pudding, mulled wine, fancy-ass hot chocolate, and spiced cider.
Wren inhales deeply. “Think anyone would mind if I started in on the pie right now? This baby is hungry today.”
“If they do, they’ll have to deal with me.” I heft the bag of presents higher on my shoulder and watch her waddle over to the kitchen. West gives her a one-armed hug and laughs as she frames her belly with her hands. The bright green sweatshirt brings out her eyes, but it’s the red present applique with the words “Best Gift Ever” over her bump that made me buy it for her.
I should have known she’d get me back, though. My black t-shirt is emblazoned with 404 – Christmas Spirit Not Found.
“It’s a geek thing,” she’d said when she’d thrusted it at me this morning. “And yes. You have to wear it.”
I’d do anything for her, and she knows it.
With a grunt, I lower myself to one knee and add to the large pile of gifts under the twelve-foot tree. Coffee and a new burr grinder for Sampson, a fancy set of paint brushes for Inara, a leather jacket for Graham, some pre-release Xbox game for Cam…
How the hell did I get to know these people well enough to actually buy gifts for them? Wren helped—I couldn’t come up with a single idea for Trevor, Royce, Q, or Evianna.
An unfamiliar sensation prickles over the back of my neck when I pull out Dax and Ripper’s gifts. They’re unconventional as fuck, and I’m terrified they’re going to hate them. But what the hell am I supposed to get the men who mean more to me than anyone in this world save for Wren and the baby?
I push to my feet when I hear the tap, tap, tap of his cane against the concrete floor. The plane from Boston landed late last night—Austin, Mik, Trevor, and Dani spent Christmas Eve with the Pritchards in Connecticut. At least Dax and Evianna are staying in Seattle through New Year’s. It’s been almost a month since we’ve seen them.
“About damn time.” I wait for Dax to cover the last few feet between us. He tucks his cane under his left arm and scowls up at me.
“We landed at two in the fucking morning. Next year, we’re having Christmas in Boston.”
I give him a quick, one-armed hug. Even after all this time, neither of us likes to be touched. “Gives you time to find a place big enough for all of us. You know we would have come out this year, but—“
“I know,” he says, his voice softening. “Flying would have been hard on Wren.”
Evianna gives me the side-eye. “Dax, I think there’s something wrong with Ry.” She tells him what I’m wearing, and the man starts laughing. Asshole.
“Did you lose a bet?” Dax asks when he catches his breath. “Or did Sampson land one too many blows to the head in the boxing ring this past week?”
“Wren bought this for me. And if you give me any more shit for it, I’ll find a way to replace all the shirts in your closet with tie-dye.”
“Boys,” Evianna says, “play nice. It’s Christmas. I’m going to go say hi to Wren and Cara.” She gives Dax a quick kiss and pats my arm before rushing off to the kitchen.
Together, Dax and I mutter, “This is nice.”
*** (Scroll up to read parts 1 and 2)
When Connor, Isabel, and Veronica show up, West declares, “Now it’s a party,” and tells me to turn the music down. Q—who’s been limping badly today—leans on Graham as they make their way over to the folding tables arranged in a large square.
Wren takes my hand when I sit next to her and guides my fingers to the side of her bump. A tiny foot slams against my palm. Or is that a fist? On my other side, Dax laughs. Actually laughs. Evianna cups his cheek and leans in to brush a kiss to his lips.
Fuck. How did we get here? How did I get here?
“Uh, Ry? Pass the curry?” Wren asks. “Then tell me where you went just now?”
Fuck. “I’m right here, little bird. Always.”
She arches her reddish brows and lowers her voice. “Bull pucky. What’s wrong?”
“Tonight, baby. When we’re alone.”
On my right, Dax cocks his head. He can hear the strain in my voice. He and Ripper are the only ones who know that particular tone. The rough edge. The memories.
“Take it,” I whisper. “Before they come back.”
Dax shoves the cracked bowl through the cell bars. “You need it more than I do.”
“Bullshit.” The uneven footsteps of the meanest of the night guards echo in the passageway. I take a deep breath, ignoring the pain from at least two broken ribs, and launch into Queen’s “Thank God It’s Christmas.”
On the other side of me, Ripper joins in. I kick the bowl back under the tarp and pray no one hears the sound.
I’m not sure Rip and Dax knew it was the twenty-fifth. I’ve tried to teach them my memory tricks. For six months, three weeks, and two days.
“Ry. If you go back there again, I’m going to kick your fucking ass,” Dax mutters. He’s staring right at me, though I can’t be much more than a diffuse shadow to him.
“West’s training has been brutal the past six months,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Pretty sure you wouldn’t win this time.”
“We can test that theory. Tomorrow.” He slides his hand slowly around his plate until he finds the bottle of beer at his eleven o’clock.
“Fuck no. We’re going to break out the good scotch tonight. And tomorrow morning, I’m taking you and Rip out for the greasiest breakfast in Seattle.”
The food is put away—coolers filled with leftovers divided among the locals.
“Take that one to Raelynn’s house,” West tells Graham as the kid wraps a strip of duct tape around a neon yellow Coleman stuffed to the brim with some of everything.
“She wasn’t happy when we showed up earlier,” Graham says. “Practically slammed the door in our faces.”
“She’ll learn. One of these days.” West shakes his head as he shuts the lid on another cooler.
“Learn?” Q asks.
“That Hidden Agenda isn’t just a business. That we never would have hired her if we didn’t think she needed us as much as we needed her.”
“I’ll do a runner,” Graham whispers, and Q relaxes a fraction. “I’ll be back in the car before her security system even goes off.”
“Ry?” Wren snuggles up to my side, her delicate fingers warm on my bicep. “Zephyr’s wiped. She’s still healing from all that horsepucky with the Strauss Cartel. We need to open presents before Ronan starts to worry any more than he already is.”
She’s right. But I’m not prepared for this. Last year, we got Chinese takeout, found a TV station with a twenty-four hour yule log, and curled up together on the couch, talking about…everything. The past. The future. Our wedding that was—at the time—only a week away.
I knew what to do when it was just the two of us. Some of the time. But fuck. In a few more months, we’ll have a kid. A baby who’ll depend on us for everything. Who’ll need me to protect her. To teach her. To…love her. Unless she’s so scared of me, she can’t stand to be around me.
Fuck. I’ll never be ready for this. Every time I look at Wren, I know she’s pregnant. It’s not just her belly. Her skin glows. Her hair is softer. Longer. Half a shade darker, too. She moves differently. Carefully. But also with purpose.
The moment I realized I loved her, she became my entire world. The one person who can see through my walls to the man I want to be. In some ways, she knows me better than anyone. Even Dax and Ripper. They knew the man I was before Hell. They’re still learning who I am now.
Taking Wren’s hand, I guide her over to the recliner next to the Christmas tree. I’m prepared to order everyone else to join us, but they all start wandering over on their own. Two or three at a time, dragging folding chairs with them or perching on the arms of the couches.
Connor’s kid, Veronica, peers up at me with a wary look in her eyes. “Can I play Santa and hand out the presents?”
“Knock yourself out, kid,” I say with what I hope is a non-threatening smile, then lower my voice. “You remember who everyone is?”
“No.” Her cheeks flush dark pink, but in the next breath, she shakes off the embarrassment. “Dad will help.”
Connor, who’s sitting next to Isabel on the closest loveseat, swallows hard, turns, and swipes his finger under his eye.
“What the hell is that about?” I whisper to Wren after sinking down on to a chair beside her.
“She only started calling Connor ‘Dad’ a few weeks ago.” Wren pats my arm. “Just wait, Ry. You’ll cry too the first time our daughter says ‘dada.”
“Harlow.”
“Huh?” She turns back to me as Veronica passes Inara a long, thin box. “What did you say?”
“Harlow. For a name. Harlow Zion McCabe. Or…Kane. Or—“
“Harlow Zion Kane McCabe,” Wren says and cups my cheek. “It’s perfect.”
The rest of the world falls away. It’s only the two of us—until a balled-up Santa hat hits me square in the chest.
“Did you hit me with Charlie’s Santa hat?”
“It was either that or we were never getting out of here tonight. Dax and I have been waiting for so long, we probably qualify for AARP now,” Ripper says with a tight-lipped smile. He’s spent most of the day with the dog pressed to his side, but from time to time, he’s relaxed for a few minutes. It’s a goddamned miracle.
“We were naming our kid. Give me a break.”
Everyone falls silent—including Charlie and Clementine.
“For fuck’s sake. Harlow Zion Kane McCabe. Can we get back to the presents?”
“File that under, ‘Words I Never Thought Ryker McCabe Would Say,’” West mutters. “Get on with it, then.”
A sparkle of ribbon catches my eye. My stomach twists. Ripper and Dax have their gifts from me. The ones that warned they had to be opened at the same time. Rip says something to our blind brother, and they lift the lids together.
“Holy shit,” Dax says when his fingers brush over the challenge coin nestled in tissue paper. “How did you find these?”
Ripper holds his loosely in his lap, his eyes locked on the Special Forces insignia over a phoenix bursting into flame. A banner with ODA 5150 wraps around the bottom of the design.
“I didn’t. I had them made. Take it out of the fucking box, will you?” I pull the third coin out of my pocket. I don’t have full sensation in all of my fingers. But there’s enough left for me to feel the Braille on the back of the memento.
Dax sucks in a breath. “Brothers til’ the end. And then some.”
“Hooah,” Ripper says.
These men and women—all of them—are my family. One I didn’t want, but would now do anything to protect.
“Hooah,” I add before I stand and cross my arms over my chest. “Listen up. All of you. Two years ago, if anyone had told me I’d be spending Christmas with this many people—willingly—I’d have laughed them into next week.”
“Two years ago,” Inara says, “you didn’t remember what laughter was, Ry.”
I’d glare at her, but she’s not wrong.
“This family was forged in blood and pain. We’re stronger because of what we survived. How we survived. Together.”
“Merry Christmas,” West says, lifting what is probably his tenth cup of coffee today in a toast. “To family.”
Every single person in the room echoes his words. “To family.”