“Listen,” he repeated.  “We’re going to be separated for a bit.  We just are.  I can’t say for how long.”  He swallowed, and I watched his throat move, his big Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that reminded me just how young he was.  “But listen, and I mean this, do not turn on the TV.  You are not to watch the news, you understand me?”

I nodded that I did and promised that I wouldn’t.

That lasted about three days.

It was on every channel.  Francis Baker, as Iris was known to the public, had been assassinated in broad daylight, mere days after the trial was over.

The story went that at a stoplight, a van pulled up beside the car she was transported in, and six men in ski masks jumped out of said van.

She was dragged from the car, and her driver and one of her bodyguards, who were both wounded in the attack, witnessed her being shot at point blank in the temple.  One of her bodyguards was also reportedly killed, a big blond man, they said, though no name was divulged.

Heath knew this was coming, I told myself.  It has to be fake.  It has to be.  How else would he have been so sure it was coming?  Why else would he have asked me not to turn on the TV?

I wanted to believe it was all a lie, but it hurt like it was the truth.

I held our babies close and prayed that they would come back to me.

TWO MONTHS LATER

We’d moved again.  The second place in as many months.

Raf and Gus took it well, considering that we kept uprooting their lives.  I was eternally grateful to them for handling this all with grace, for going so far out of their way to keep from adding to my already vast burden of guilt.

We were somewhere in Arizona, in the middle of freaking nowhere, of course, in a large house, on a huge property with high gates and lots of land.

Our guards had been doubled since the incident with the van.  We had men on the perimeter as well as in the house.

I had the babies both in high chairs, feeding them tiny spoonfuls of green mush when I heard the front door open.

This wasn’t unusual.  With all of the agents roaming around, people were coming in and out at all hours.

Still, I called out, “Hello!” and wondered why no one answered back.  The agents assigned to us were usually very good about announcing themselves.

I didn’t have to wonder long.

Heath and Iris, looking tired but healthy and whole, came striding into the room.

I started to shake, every bit of me, top to bottom, from the marrow of my bones to the very outer layer of my skin, shaking.  Trembling like I had a fever.

But it wasn’t a fever, it was a rush of relief so profound and pure that it knocked the breath out of me.

I’d wondered over the last two torturous months what I’d do if I saw him again.  If I’d scream and rail at him for putting me through this, or if I’d embrace him and weep, be so relieved to see him that it’d trump all of my anger at the pain and uncertainty he’d put me through.

But after one devastating look at him, it wasn’t even a question.

I launched myself at him, running across the room, flinging my arms around his shoulders as I jumped up against him, legs snaking around his hard thighs and gripping.

He grabbed my ass with one hand, my shoulder with the other, pulling me even tighter to him.

I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in.  He kissed my temple.

I wanted to say so many things, but none of them seemed as important as this, just touching him, taking him in.

One of his big hands snaked into my hair and angling my face to him, he crushed his mouth against mine.

I pulled back enough to look at him.  We stayed like that, panting, breathing each other’s air as I stared into his eyes.

They were still cold.  They would never be warm.  I knew that by now, just as I’d known that they’d never be the windows to his soul.

But it hit me then what was.

His soul was in his touch.  His reverent lips, his mastering hands, his seeking body—those were the things that showed his hand and betrayed his true feelings.

His reverent lips told me that he loved me, his trembling hands told me that he needed me, and his seeking body told me he trusted me.

I soothed him, made him feel whole again.

He invigorated me, made me feel alive again.

He was mine and I was his, and no matter how long it took him to make it back to me, I’d be there waiting for him.

THREE YEARS LATER

It was late spring in Vegas.  That brief time of year in Sin City where it was actually nice outside; hot out, a perfect day for the pool, but with the temperature still sitting somewhere reasonable in the double digits.

We were enjoying a BBQ at Dair’s friend, Turner’s, house.

Since we’d returned home, this had become a weekly thing.  Turner loved to entertain.

It was good to be home.  It had taken years, but at last, here we were.

The running was over, and we were slowly settling back into some semblance of normal a life.

A heavily pregnant Iris sat in the shade on a chaise lounge beside me while our husbands threw the boys around the pool.

She was patting her big belly, proud as punch about it, as she always was these days, when she asked me, “Are you and Heath having any more?”

I was mid sip of sangria, and I nearly spit it out.

I shot her a look, an are you out of your mind? look.

“Are you out of your mind?” I asked aloud, when I was done choking.

She laughed, and finally I laughed when I saw that unsurprisingly, she was messing with me.