Weeks pass.

Catalina moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, cracking eggs into a pan as the sizzle fills the silence.

The penthouse is quiet this morning, bathed in a soft wash of sunlight that filters through the windows, warming the counters and casting long shadows on the polished tile. Catalina stands at the stove, focused, but not entirely present—like she's moving on muscle memory alone. Her eyes are distant, her jaw clenched. She shifts her weight slightly, biting back a wince as the fresh stretch pulls at the healing cut on her upper arm. It's a sharp reminder—Cirillo may be locked up, but what he left behind still echoes through her body. She hasn't really rested. None of them have.

Everything feels muted lately. It's not silence—it's the kind of quiet that follows an explosion, where the world still rings in your ears and the smoke hasn't cleared.

She hasn't spoken to Kael since that night, not really. Not in the ways that matter. Just a few clipped exchanges about his medication. She doesn't know how to start. Doesn't even know if she wants to. The blood, the screaming, the look in his eyes before she pulled the trigger—those images haven't faded.

Samara enters, wrapped in layers of unapologetic red, like she's been waiting all morning for someone to look at her. Her heels click loudly against the floor as she makes her way in, pausing just long enough to pose in the doorway, then makes the hall her catwalk. It's a grand, sweeping entrance—the kind that doesn't belong in a house that still feels like it's recovering from a warzone.

And Samara doesn't do subtle—she never has. The top is sheer and tight, the kind of thing only someone with zero shame or complete confidence would wear—both, in her case. The skirt balloons out in massive folds, dramatic and sculptural, like she's been sewn into a rose mid-bloom. And then there's the hat—no, the event perched atop her head, that might as well have its own zip code. It's all too much. Which, for Samara, is exactly the point.

And this morning, she's clearly on a mission to remind everyone that they're still alive—and therefore still required to appreciate her.

"Tell the world I'm back," she declares, sweeping one arm toward the ceiling, "and yes, I wore Christian Siriano for the occasion."

Catalina glances up from the stove, a small, reluctant smirk tugging at her lips. "Of course you did," she mutters, voice dry as she flips an egg. "God forbid the world forgets." It's the first real thing she's said all morning. The first time her voice doesn't sound like it's wrapped in cotton.

Samara grins, flipping her hair. "I'm doing the public a favor. Besides, enough things have happened. No more things for a while. Thank you."

Enough things have happened, indeed.

"You look like shit," Kael's stepmother tells her.

Catalina gives her a flat look. "Sorry, there hasn't been much time to glam up between wounds and nurse shifts."

"You could've at least done your hair. That low ponytail makes you look like a young man in colonial America eager to start your woodworking apprenticeship."

Catalina exhales through her nose. "Great. I'll add 'eighteenth-century apprentice' to my list of alter egos—right under hostage, field medic, bait, and wife of the year: shot my husband, then saved his life."

"Don't forget queen," Samara says pointedly.

She scoffs. "Yeah, well. I don't feel like royalty. And Kael's more collapsed war general than king at the moment."

Samara shrugs. "So? In chess, even when the king and queen fall, they're still the king and queen the next game."

Catalina raises a brow. "That supposed to be comforting?"

Samara gives her a blinding smile. "It's supposed to be true. Anyway, we need to go back to breakfast being my personal press conference again," she says, gracefully settling on the stool. "The trauma nurse slash assassin role didn't really fit my aesthetic."

"Think it fit you pretty well, vita mia," Polo drawls, entering the penthouse. His eyes flick to the fading bruises on Samara's throat. "Though I'd prefer you stayed out of the crossfire next time."

His suit is immaculate—three-piece, tailored to precision, the pocket square neatly complementing his tie. He's always composed, the picture of business, but today, he looks tired. Not disheveled, just worn at the edges. His phone is already open, presumably going through hundreds of emails, and there's a tightness in his shoulders that no amount of pressed cotton can hide.

Catalina supposes that's what conquering an entire territory will do to you. Polo executed Kael's plan and carved through the city's underbelly with a quiet precision, turning it from the Mirkovs' kingdom into Kael's territory. Some of his men managed to escape, fleeing back to Ilwich, but they didn't make it far. Stefano Mirkov also returned, expecting armies to rally behind him to save his brother, but he found Polo instead. The city now answered to Kael, its veins wrapped tightly in Polo's influence, a stark reminder that there was no escape from the Fourth.

The city that was once a symbol of the Mirkovs' dominance is now a reflection of Kael's conquest. The Mirkovs are gone.

"Me caring was a publicity stunt," Samara counters smoothly, clearing her throat. "Don't worry, you won't get used to it."

Behind Polo, Jae steps through—one arm stiff in a cast, the rest of him looking like he's still walking off the aftershocks of the last few days. His hair's a mess, shirt rumpled, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. When Catalina hands him his milk, he offers her a small smile, one that says I'm okay even if it's only halfway true.

The boy made Kael a promise, and he kept it—not because he had to, but because Catalina became his family, too. Not in blood, but in loyalty and in love. And when the time came, he proved it.

One to the shoulder, another to the chest. He was wearing a vest underneath, but she still left him bleeding on the ground. In that moment, with Frankie trembling and strapped to bombs, her heart was breaking thinking he assumed she was leaving him behind to die. The guilt still sat in her chest, crushing her. Afterward, when Kael was stable and she was able to focus on his brother—bruised, stitched up, barely able to move—she broke. Apologized through sobs, the words tumbling out of her, ugly and raw: "I didn't want to leave you. I had no choice." And Jae, ever the soldier, ever her family, said, "Noona, you did the only possible thing. And we're alive."

What he didn't say—but what she would come to realize—was that the guilt he carried was just as unbearable. That he allowed Catalina to be taken under his watch. That he might have lost her. Them, because she made the choice to go with Cirillo, and he had let her.

Jae never said it outright, never needed to. Catalina knew how he grieved: with silence, with duty, with the relentless pressure to hold everyone together, even when he was unraveling himself. She'd catch it in the way he stood too still when her wounds were mentioned, or how his voice softened every time he asked about Frankie or the baby. And though she had told him—again and again—that it wasn't his fault, that she went willingly, that it was her call to make...she knew it didn't matter.

Because to Jae, family meant protection. And losing her, even for a moment, meant he failed. He was his sister, in every sense that mattered. His mother, too, in ways that words couldn't capture. And in that moment, Catalina understood, with aching clarity, that Jae loved her as she loved him.

"Oh, good, I'm starving," Chuck mutters, entering the penthouse last. His voice is as casual as ever, but he's missing his usual swagger as he drags himself inside. He glances over at Catalina, who's busy with the eggs. "Blondie, you mind tossing me a plate?" he quips, flashing her that mischievous grin that's almost too wide for his face.

Catalina slides a plate over to him, pulls out the coffee pot, and pours him a cup. It's black, strong, and looks like it could fuel a tank.

Chuck takes one look at it and laughs. "If I drink this, I might just be ready for another round with Cirillo," he teases, leaning back with a grin. He takes a long sip, then exaggerates a shudder. "God, I feel like I just chewed on an old boot, but in the best way possible."

He, Jae, and Chuck have been taking turns torturing Cirillo until Kael's fully recovered.

Chuck has been busy. Putting down all the people who thought they could take advantage while they were vulnerable, cleaning up the messes left behind. Hunting down every rat who prayed for the Fourth's fall. He doesn't let anyone slip through the cracks—not if they've crossed Kael.

"How's your wound?" Catalina asks, still not looking up from the stove. She's already heard the grumbles about his injury, but she knows Chuck well enough to expect an answer wrapped in sarcasm.

Chuck winces dramatically, shifting his weight as if he's still in pain. "It's fine. I've got a good doctor, though she's a bit naggy. You should meet her sometime. Very hands-on. A leggy blonde, too," he teases, the grin never leaving his face.

Catalina glances over at him with a dry look. "You're lucky you're even sitting here."

"You too. And Kael on the bed. You know, you've earned a spot on my 'Top Surgeons' list," he adds with a smirk. "Honestly, you should put 'Kael's and Chuck's personal surgeon' on your resumé. I'd even write you a glowing recommendation, but I'm not sure your bedside charm is up to par. Could use a few tweaks."

Catalina snorts, clearly not impressed. "You should be back in bed. Beside him, if you want—not back out here, or the battlefield, playing tough guy."

Chuck grins. "Kael needs me, I show up. It's just how it goes." He pauses for a second, looking thoughtful in that rare, fleeting way he does. "Besides, someone's gotta take out the trash while he's out of commission. And I'm good at taking out trash."

His voice drops an octave, a different kind of seriousness settling in. "Cirillo's men are crawling out of every corner now that the Mirkovs have fallen, trying to scavenge what's left. I've been hunting them before they get the chance." He takes another sip of the coffee. "A few tried to hide in the underground, but Samara's got eyes everywhere."

Catalina's hands still, the weight of his words sinking in. There's no rest for any of them. Not yet. She turns off the stove and sets the spatula down. "What about the man who seduced Frankie?"

Chuck gives her a slow, measured nod, like he understands without needing her to explain. "Hunted him down. He's hanging with Cirillo—pun intended."

"Good." The word slides from her lips like ice, soft but final. Good. She needs this settled, needs them both to pay in ways death alone can't deliver. "And Merlot?"

Polo finishes pouring Samara her coffee. "Not coming back."

The informant sighs dramatically. "Hallelujah. Thought He blocked my number."

When the captain found out Catalina had been taken, she didn't hesitate. She assumed, rightly or not, that Kael might trade her son to get Catalina back—and so she ran. Abandoned her post, disappeared into the wind, and did what any mother would do: she went to protect her child. It was the very reason Kael asked Chuck to keep an eye on her. Not out of paranoia, but in case her loyalties shifted. And when Catalina became leverage, Merlot, a mother before anything else, understood that Catalina had become Kael's priority.

Kael gave up their location knowing she'd make it out alive with the boy. He counted on it. Chuck had helped spring the ambush when Cirillo's men came, guns drawn, with orders to bring them both in alive. And just like that, she was gone.

She hasn't been back since.

It's hard to feel sorry for the woman who treated Catalina like shit. But it's harder not to understand the mother who would burn everything down for her child.

Nieko, she was told. The boy's name. Not Mirkov. Not Ruscetti. Latona. Maybe she's changed it again by now, because this time, she has no intentions of ever being found.

"What about Six?"

Catalina blinks. "Hmm?"

Samara reaches out and puts a perfectly manicured hand on Catalina's belly. Meeting her eyes, she repeats, "Six."

The Sixth.

"Oh." Catalina clears her throat. "He's...she's...fine."

For a moment, she thought she lost their baby. There was so much blood. It soaked through her pants, streaked down her legs, but she couldn't stop. Kael was dying on the table, and there was no one else. So she kept going, stitching him back together with shaking hands, forcing herself to block out the fear clawing at her. There wasn't room to panic. Not then. Not with Kael slipping away right in front of her.

Only after Kael was stabilized did her own body start to catch up—her vision had gone blurry, her limbs heavy. The last thing she remembered was the sharp, twisting pain in her abdomen and the metallic taste in her mouth before everything went dark. She woke up in a haze, the sterile scent of antiseptic and the beeping of monitors grounding her in the present. Jae and Samara were there, and Catalina didn't ask right away. She couldn't. Because what if the answer shattered her? Them?

Jae turned to her with a small, tired smile, and told her that the baby was still there. Alive and healthy. The relief was quiet but overwhelming, like coming up for air after being underwater too long. She didn't cry, didn't speak—just sat there, hand on her stomach, and finally let herself breathe and believe it: they were both still here. All of them.

No one speaks for a moment. The kitchen should be a place of comfort, but today it's full of people who've seen each other at their worst. There is no going back from that.

And Kael...

As if summoned by name, he appears, leaning heavily on crutches. His right leg trembles under the weight, his torso wrapped in thick bandages, but he holds himself upright with stubborn determination. His skull is also bandaged.

The sight of him like this—vulnerable, hurt, weak—pulls at something inside Catalina, a tightness in her chest. She thought she was going to lose him. Thought she might never see him again, never feel his presence in the room, never hear his voice the way she used to. She remembers the blood, the sound of his faint heartbeat when she thought she might never feel it again, and how the world stopped.

But here he is, standing in front of her, still breathing, still alive. It should feel like relief, but it doesn't. It feels like a quiet ache, a soft pull on her heart that refuses to fade. She's grateful, of course, but there's a pain in seeing him like this—so close, yet so fragile. She isn't sure how to reconcile this version of him with the one she's always known. It's painful in a way she didn't expect, the way love can be when the person you care about is hurt, but still here. The moment is bittersweet, because the fear of losing him, the memory of almost losing him, still lingers, like an unspoken weight between them.

But even with the signs of his injury, the room feels the weight of Kael's power—and he doesn't let anyone forget it. "Tell me we don't look as weak as I feel," Kael says, his voice low.

"On the contrary," Polo says without missing a beat, flipping his phone around to show a map lit up with coded locations. "Ilwich is under full control. We've locked down all movement in the northern corridor, and anyone trying to crawl out of the woodwork has already been intercepted. Affiliations are holding—Cirillo doesn't change that. He hasn't made a dent in our territories, but the power vacuum left by his downfall is still being contained. Chuck's on it."

"Our domestic alliances are steady," Jae adds, dragging a chair out with his good arm and sinking into it. As standing leader, he's been taking charge of operations alongside Polo. "International arms are still secure, we've got the Brancatos and Kimura syndicates in line. The Fourth still rules San Helena, hyung."

Kael exhales through his nose, his jaw set. "What about circulation? Who's manning the ports?"

"I assigned Merlot's crew to the west dock," Chuck replies. "No interference so far, but Samara's keeping eyes there in case Cirillo's leftovers try to regroup."

"Also keeping an eye on movement from other factions in case they try to make their own power grabs, but nothing substantial yet. They're fragmented and uncoordinated. I'll keep a closer watch on the situation," Kael's stepmother chimes in.

Polo adjusts his collar. "I'm scheduled to meet with our plenipotentiary within the police agency tomorrow. I'll need to ensure that our efforts remain airtight."

Kael gives him a nod of approval. "I trust you and Jae will keep it in hand."

Jae, noticing the acknowledgment, nods eagerly.

"Yes, sir," Polo responds quietly with a curve to his mouth.

"Any developme—"

Alright, Catalina's had enough. She turns. "You're supposed to be resting."

Kael falls silent as he looks at her. Lowly, he answers, "I feel like I'm dying in that bed, Catalina."

She snaps, "Yeah, remember when you almost did? You need to be recovering from that."

Kael stares her down. "And remember when you willingly threw yourself into Cirillo's trap?"

Catalina's eyes flash. "He had Frankie. I had no choice."

"And so you thought it was okay to put yourself at harm's way? And what if you died?" her husband bites out. "How was I going to survive that, Catalina?"

"You barely did!" she shouts. "I shot you and I almost couldn't save you!"

The silence that follows is deafening.

Chuck stays rooted, watching them like a live drama. Jae looks pained, while Polo switches his gaze between the two, his lips pressed tight. Even Samara doesn't speak.

Kael's voice lowers, rough and worn. "I can't sit still. I need to do something."

Catalina doesn't take her eyes away from him. Loudly, she says, "Your boss needs to rest. You can all wait."

Kael's jaw tightens. "I'm going back to work."

Catalina doesn't look away from him and repeats, "Your boss needs to rest. You can all wait."

Polo shifts, uneasy. "Jae's leading operations. If you're not—"

"He's not."

"Catalina," Kael warns.

She turns fully toward him now, eyes hard. "You almost died, Kael. And now you're what—checking off your to-do list?"

"I know what happened." His voice is quiet, pained. "I was there."

"No," she fires back. "I was there. I brought you back."

He takes a breath, but she doesn't give him the space to speak. The anger is a shield—protecting her from the guilt, the fear, the overwhelming sense of helplessness she's buried deep inside since that night. Since she was elbow-deep in blood, trying to keep him alive. Since she had to hold him together while her legs were shaking, bleeding, breaking. Since she had to push down every ounce of panic to stitch the man she loves back into existence. It's easier to be angry than to admit how much it broke her. "Get back to bed, Kael."

Kael's mouth tenses, words stalled at the back of his throat. Catalina's chest rises and falls, sharp and shallow, her fists clenched at her sides.

Finally, resigned, he turns around and trudges back into bed in the guest room.

Samara whistles lowly, sipping her coffee. "Breakfast and a show. Love this house."

Chuck shoves her shoulder.

Catalina follows her husband.

In the guest room, Kael lowers himself onto the bed with a rough exhale, trying to wave her off when she steps in to help. "I've got it," he mutters, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping the edge of the crutch.

"Yeah, sure you do," Catalina says, crossing her arms as she watches him fumble with the blanket. "Looks like you're thriving."

Kael shoots her a look, sharp but tired. "You done?"

Catalina moves to the side of the bed, snatching the blanket from his hands and yanking it up with a little more force than necessary. "Not even close."

He leans back against the pillows, eyes slipping shut for a moment before cracking open again. "I didn't ask for a babysitter."

Her jaw tightens. "You didn't ask to almost die on me either, but here we are."

Kael's brow furrows. "I don't want you looking at me like this." His voice is quiet, soft, edged with frustration.

Catalina lets out a short breath, arms crossing as she steps to the foot of the bed. "Then maybe don't act like you're invincible." She meets his gaze, steady and flat. "I didn't crawl through hell keeping you alive just to watch you run yourself into the ground trying to prove a point. If you don't care about your health, then at least pretend you care that I almost just lost you."

He exhales, the sound worn, stripped down.

Catalina steps back, her voice clipped. "Get some rest. I'll bring you food next time you wake up, you're on antibiotics."

Her husband looks at her for a long time, like he's trying to reach inside her heartstrings, tug them, and say, I'm sorry, jaan. I'm still here. I am so sorry.

He opens his mouth, but Catalina beats him to it. "Sleep, Kael," she says without turning. "We'll fight later."

*

Kael recovers slowly. Stubbornly, still, but that's clearly a fundamental quality of his sterling personality.

They don't talk about that night. Catalina keeps her words brief, Kael even more so. But in the quiet moments, the words they never say press against the silence like a pulse, a tenderness there that neither of them speaks aloud.

There's the way her hands move carefully over him as she helps him into bed, or in the bath, or feeds him, her fingers light but steady, and the way his reach lingers, fingers brushing hers when she pulls away. Sometimes, when he thinks she isn't looking, his thumb moves over the ring on her finger, slow and deliberate, as if needing to remind himself in the simple fact that they're still married, she's still his, that they're still here.

His gaze lingers on her belly sometimes, or on the scar along her arm. She feels the weight of it without needing to look—the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes darken, the quiet storm beneath his skin. But he never voices it, and neither does she. There's so much between them now that lives in the unsaid, stitched into the spaces between touch and glance.

At night, when sleep drags him under, Kael sometimes makes low, guttural sounds, half-choked, half-swallowed panic. Catalina knows better now than to leave him to it. She reaches for his hand, anchors him with the simple press of skin, and waits until his breathing settles, until his fingers soften around hers and he's pulled back into a peaceful sleep.

She's beside him now, seated beside the bed, when the door cracks open.

Jae slips inside, unusually quiet, his face tired but gentle."How's he doing?" he murmurs.

Catalina looks down at Kael's face, the faint scruff on his jaw, the hollowness still lingering in his cheeks. "He's...getting better. Slowly."

The younger Kincaid sits beside her. "He's being a pain in the ass."

She smiles faintly, the smallest curve of her mouth. "Yeah."

They sit in silence for a few moments. Then Jae says, "There's a word."

Catalina looks at him. "Hmm?"

"In Arabic—ya'aburnee. It means 'you bury me.'" His gaze flicks to hers, mouth twitching in a sad, almost fond smile. "It's the kind of love where you pray you'll die first, because living without the person you love is unbearable. You'd rather face the grave than face a world that they don't walk anymore."

Catalina's throat tightens, eyes shining. She presses her lips together, trying to hold it in.

"That night, when we were coming for you...I've watched hyung face worse and come out of it unscathed. But that night, noona, I saw a man ready to tear the world apart—or burn with it—if it meant getting to you."

His gaze drops to Kael's still form. "Noona...you know how hyung operates—he's always calculated, always in control. But in his desperation to split Mirkov's resources and buy time for me and Chuck hyung, his focus was on you. Your safety was his goal. And for once, he didn't care about playing the game, about staying one step ahead. He was willing to do whatever it took—no matter the cost."

Catalina closes her eyes.

"He told you to shoot him because there was no other way. He would've let you bury him if it meant you lived."

Catalina feels a sting in her chest, the weight of Jae's words sinking into her, suffocating her. Her hands tremble slightly, and she holds back the tears, but the rush of emotions overwhelms her. A quiet sob escapes her throat, the depth of Kael's sacrifice—of his love—too much to bear.

"I used to think hyung didn't fear anything," Jae mutters. "He is fear. But you—you terrify him. Noona, losing you...losing you would break him in a way no bullet, no enemy, no war ever could."

She swallows hard, eyes glistening, her hands clenched tight in the blanket.

Jae leans down, presses a warm kiss to her cheek—light, brotherly, careful. "I'm sure you understand that, but I just wanted to remind you. Get some rest, noona," he murmurs. "He'll need you when he's up."

For a second, all she can do is nod, the lump in her throat too big to swallow. Jae lingers just a moment longer, then pulls back, his smile small but real, his front teeth jutting out like a bunny.

When the door closes softly behind him, Catalina finally cracks.

She folds in on herself, hands lifting to cover her face as the first sob punches out of her chest. It's like all the pieces she's been holding together snap at once, unraveling under the weight of it all. Her shoulders shake, quiet at first, then rougher, the sound breaking loose from her throat as she leans forward, pressing her forehead to Kael's arm.

She doesn't hear the shift of the sheets at first, the faint sound of breath pulling deeper.

"Catalina..."

Her name, rasped out in a voice raw from sleep and pain, pulls her up. She lifts her head—and there he is, Kael, eyes heavy but open, his brows pulling together as he takes her in.

The dam breaks fully, the quiet sobs turning helpless and ragged as she crumbles into him, burying her face in his chest. Kael, weak and still recovering, drags an arm around her, pulling her in with the last of his strength, his fingers threading into her hair, holding on like she's the only thing anchoring him to this world.

"I hated you," she breathes against him, voice shaking. "I hated you for walking in there unarmed."

"He had you," is Kael's quiet and simple response.

"I hated you for making me watch you get hurt," Catalina continues, the words trembling from her.

"He had you," he repeats, as if that makes sense. As if that was enough.

"I hated you for making me shoot you," she chokes. "For making me pull that trigger."

"He had you," Kael says, and his grip tightens around her.

"I hated you for making me save you," Catalina whispers. "I hated you for almost leaving me."

Kael presses a kiss to her temple, the touch tender, the words guttural and soft: "I'm sorry."

"You'd have rather it been you than me."

His answer is quick. Immediate. Absolute. "Yes."

"And if it were me...you'll follow me." It's not a question.

Kael tips her chin up and captures her mouth with his. "It wouldn't ever have been you, but yes," he whispers. "There's nowhere that I can't follow you, Catalina."

Even to death.

Her breath hitches, a sob punching through her chest.

"Then what about me, Kael? What about me?"

Kael falls silent for a moment. Then, he looks down at her, his gaze heavy with apology and regret, and that familiar hardness in his chest softens just for her. "I'm sorry," he repeats, softer this time, as if he could say it a thousand times and it would never be enough.

Catalina clings to him, her tears soaking into his shirt, no longer in anger—only in a grief that runs deep, a love that's cracked open and bleeding between them. A love that's survived, and will continue to survive, everything.

Kael's lips brush her ear, the word falling out like a vow: "Jaan."

Life.

He draws a shaky breath, and when he speaks, it's raw, reverent. "I told you. Only two things will have me."

Catalina lifts her face, wet with tears, voice shaking but fierce. "I haven't even had enough time to love you. So death doesn't get to touch you yet."

Kael lets out a ragged breath, his forehead pressing to hers, his eyes falling closed—

Soft, for once.

Hers, completely.

*

#ReignTheFourthWP