Page 197 of Burn Like An Angel

“You’re late by three minutes.”

“Hello to you too,” Jude remarks. “Where are my wife and son?”

Gesturing over my shoulder, I wave him in. He slaps me on the back as he passes, pulling off his medical lanyard to tuck it away. Warner follows him in, walking with a new, slight limp.

“You alright?”

He shrugs. “New prosthetic. Had a mishap with the last one.”

“Do I even want to know what happened to it?”

“Probably not.”

Smiling, I tug him into a hug. “You need to be careful.”

“Bullets just seem to like me, Xan.”

“Ripley won’t buy that bullshit.”

Admittedly, it took about six years for us to reach the touching stage. His steadfast presence in Ripley’s life cemented my trust for him, though thick-skulled, younger Xander should’ve appreciated his actions long ago.

“What’s kept you so busy?”

Warner releases me. “New client. Bit hard to explain. We’re wrapped up in some messy shit.”

“Sounds about right.”

“We’ll handle it.” He flicks his hand dismissively. “How did the doc airing go?”

“As expected. We need to give you our new numbers.”

He bites back a laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“It’ll die down.”

Guiding him into the bursting apartment, I watch for Ripley’s reaction. Warner is her confidante. They talk regularly, but his work at Sabre pulls him in all directions.

Their most recent case—some complex, human trafficking situation—has led him to be absent since her interview. He had to undertake a long-haul trip to Mexico as part of the ongoing investigation.

“Did I miss the party?” Warner calls out.

Her head snapping up, Ripley turns to gape at us. “You’re back!”

“I couldn’t miss seeing this lot altogether in one room.”

Ripley rushes to pull him into a hug. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Nothing could’ve stopped me, Rip.”

I catch Lennox’s gaze across the room. He’s smiling at the sight of our girl, happily surrounded by everyone we care about. People we didn’t know existed when we first set upon the road to this moment.

“Did I miss the live show?” Warner jokes, his eyes on Raine still plucking the violin in his lap.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No live show.”

“Oh, come on,” Enzo cajoles. “Give us a preview. Then we’ll all have bragging rights that we heard the great Raine Starling’s latest hit first.”

There’s a chorus of agreements. Silencing them with a raised hand, Raine grins ear to ear as he stands up in front of the room. Sobriety agrees with him. His career has hit the damn stratosphere in the last few years.

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