Cast’s hand slides around from her back, his fingers finding the swollen bud of her clit. The touch is her undoing.
Her climax hits her like a seizure. Her body arches violently between us, a silent scream on her lips as waves of pleasure rack her frame. The contractions around my cock are relentless, milking me, pulling my own orgasm from me with a force that whites out my vision. I throw my head back with a guttural roar, pumping into her, claiming her, my own release a hot, pulse after pulse inside her.
I feel Cast stiffen behind her, his own groan a ragged, broken thing as he finds his finish, his thrusts becoming shallow, possessive jerks as he spills himself deep within her other channel.
We hold her there, shuddering through the aftershocks, our bodies still joined, our breath coming in ragged, synchronized gasps. The hallway air is thick with the smell of sex and sweatand us. Slowly, carefully, we lower her until her feet touch the cool floor, though she sags between us, boneless and spent.
I lean my forehead against hers, our breath mingling. Cast’s lips are pressed to her damp hair.
None of us speak. There are no words for this. For the redemption found in shared skin, in the quiet, heavy aftermath of a storm we weathered together.
Her hands, weak and trembling, come up to cradle both our faces. “I love you.”
I look over her head, making eye contact with Cast. “We love you too.”
“Yes we do,” he nods, and I know he is saying he loves me too, despite it all.
17
WILLOW
The daysafter my kidnapping are quiet and slow.
Penny’s finally home from the hospital—still weak, but better. I should feel the same. In some ways, I do. I can breathe without shaking. I can sleep without hearing his voice. But I can’t paint. Every time I try, the smell of turpentine turns my stomach, and the canvas feels like a threat instead of a promise. I tell everyone I’m just tired, that I’ll get back to it soon. But they see it—the distance in my smile, the way I flinch when someone closes a door too hard.
Cast keeps finding reasons to stay close. Vincent hovers more gently than before, like he’s afraid to touch something fragile. And Damien—he never says it out loud, but he watches me the way he used to watch the kids when they were sick, waiting for signs of fever.
I ignore it all, because I’d rather focus on the parts of the house that feel normal. The ones that breathe. My morning coffee. The children’s laughter. The smell of cinnamon and hearth. How determined I am to make Christmas feel like Christmas.
I sit on the balcony with a steaming mug between my hands. The cold air bites at my cheeks. The world is muffled, quiet,heavy with fresh snow. Beyond the railing, the pine trees bend under their weight like old men bowing to the season.
For a moment, everything is still. The coffee is bitter and perfect. I don’t feel as broken as I am, right now.
“Mom! It’s snowing again!” Rose’s voice cuts through the hall like a bell, bright and breathless. “And it’s sticking this time!”
I blink, startled out of my quiet, and glance through the glass doors just as she bursts into the room, wearing her red robe and mismatched socks, curls wild from sleep. Behind her, Theo thunders in with one boot on and one off, holding the other as he hops out of the house.
“Mom, look!” he announces. “There’s enough to make a snow fort!”
“You say that every year,” Cast’s voice drifts from the hall, low and amused. “And then you quit halfway through and start a snowball war instead.”
“You need a fort for a snow ball fight, Pops!!” Theo shouts back, laughing.
Rose spins toward me, cheeks pink. “Can we go outside now?”
“Breakfast first,” I say automatically, setting my mug down and brushing snow off my sleeves. “And hats this time. You nearly froze your ears off yesterday.”
She groans, dragging out the wordmooomlike a song as she kicks her foot against the patio.
Vincent strolls out barefoot, hair tousled from sleep, holding a mug of his own. The light hits him through the window, softening the lines that stress carved into his face. “I’ll help with breakfast,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. “You sit. You look like you were finally relaxed.”
I smile faintly. “It’s okay, my coffee is cold now anyway.”
He smirks. “I’ll refresh it..”
Vincent steps closer, the steam from his mug curling between us. His hand brushes mine briefly as he takes the empty cup from my fingers, the touch warm and grounding. Before turning, he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek—soft, hesitant, careful in a way that still surprises me.
His lips leave behind the faintest trace of heat, and my chest tightens with something fragile and human—trust trying to grow back in the scarred places. It’s been hard. Harder than I ever admit out loud. Learning how to stand next to him without thinking about everything we’ve lost, everything we almost didn’t get back. But we’re trying, and that’s what matters right?
