She’s mine now. And I’m going to protect her.
I go to her settings and navigate into her cloud backup.
I retrieve my phone from my pocket and set up a family sharing account. It takes me less than two minutes to link her device to mine. From now on, every photo she takes, every note she writes, every text she receives—I’ll see it.
I slip her phone back into her bag just as we pull up to the iron gates of my estate.
The sensors read my tag, and the heavy gates swing open.
She stirs but doesn't fully wake—a small mercy given what I've just done.
I navigate the winding driveway, the headlights cutting through the darkness. The house looms ahead—a sprawling structure of stone and timber that resembles a fortress more than a home.
It’s dark. Cold.
There are no Christmas lights. No wreaths. No festive bullshit.
Caroline used to handle that. Since she died, I haven't bothered. The staff knows better than to ask. Ryder used to complain about it when he still lived here, whining that it was depressing.
He was right.
But looking at the dark windows now, I don't see a depressing void. I see a canvas.
Blair can fix this.
She can fill this place with whatever holiday nonsense she wants. She can put up ten trees if it makes her smile. She can wrap the whole goddamn house in twinkling lights.
We can light up the whole goddamn neighborhood like Clark inChristmas Vacationfor all I care.
Whatever makes her happy.
I park in the garage, killing the engine.
I don't wake her.
I get out, walk around to the passenger side, and open the door.
She murmurs something unintelligible as I unbuckle her seatbelt. I slide my arms under her—one beneath her knees, the other supporting her back—and lift her.
She’s dead weight, warm and soft against my chest. Her head tucks naturally into the crook of my neck, her nose burying itself in my shirt. She smells like sex. She smells a little like the alcohol she was drinking at the bar.
But most of all, she smells likeme.
I carry her into the house.
The air inside is still. The security system chirps a quiet acknowledgment of my presence, disarming itself as I walk through the mudroom and into the kitchen.
I don't stop. I navigate through the great room, past the massive stone fireplace that hasn't seen a fire in years, and up the main staircase.
I could put her in a guest room. There are six of them.
I don't even consider it.
I head straight for the master suite.
My room.
I lay her down on the center of the mattress. The gray duvet swallows her up. She looks small here. Vulnerable.
