And now she’s in the next room. Mad as sin. But she’shere. Just like we dreamed of when we were kids, hiding in the hayloft from the world. Whispering about a future no one believed we could have.
Back then, it was just pretend. A safehouse. A home. A life that didn’t belong to bloodlines or bullets. Now? Now it’s all real. I don’t give myself time to think.
Just head for the kitchen, let the rhythm of motion scrape the edge off my thoughts. Hands steady even though my ribs still ache like hell, and there’s blood crusted on the hem of my sleeve.She’s in the next room. Breathing the same air as me for the first time in years. Mad as sin, sure. But here.
I open the fridge. Local market run paid off — I’ve got what I need. I grab the chicken, lemons, rosemary, the good butter she used to hoard like it was gold. Toss it all on the counter like I’ve done it a hundred times before.
The oven’s already hot — I made damn sure it always would be. State-of-the-art dual range, one for roasting, one for baking. Brass knobs, emerald green enamel finish. I picked it because it reminded me of her eyes. Even back then, I built this place for her. Every cabinet, every tile. She never asked. Never needed to. I remembered.
I cut the lemons into quarters. Stuff the bird. Slather it with butter, rosemary, salt. No measuring — she always said flavor wasn’t something you could count. Just feel it.
Behind me, the spice rack creaks. Hand-carved from old stable wood. Still has our initials carved into the side, shallow and stupid from when we were kids hiding in the loft and pretending this place was ours. It is now.
I slide the pan into the oven. Wipe my hands. Pour two glasses of wine — not the cheap shit. Bordeaux. From that vineyard in France she always talked about visiting one day. I set it on the table. Light the candles. Not because I think she’ll care. Not tonight. But because I do. I care.
Because I remember the way she used to sketch table settings in the margins of her notebooks. The way she said she wanted a kitchen people would gather in, not just pass through. A place for holidays. For warmth. For the kind of love that doesn’t ask for permission to stay. So I gave her one.
Even if she never came back. And now she’s here. Door slammed. Voice sharp enough to split bone. But she’shere. I lean on the counter. Exhale slow. Let the silence wrap around me. Let it hurt.
I look around the stable—now a home. Ours. Or it was supposed to be. Rouge called me a fool for doing all this. Said turning the old training barn into a house was a waste of money and time, especially for a ghost I might never see again. But I didn’t build it for a ghost. I built it for her.
The upstairs is still unfinished. Four bedrooms, just like we dreamed of when we were kids. A blank canvas, waiting for her touch. For crayon marks and tiny socks, for noise and lullabies and the kind of chaos only a house full of love can make. She doesn’t know about that yet.
She only sees the kitchen. The stone counters. The dining table long enough to seat a family. That damn baby grand in the corner—sanded down, painted white like she used to talk about when we were seventeen and stupid and thought love was enough. It’s hers. All of it. Always has been.
I push off the counter and walk slow toward the bedroom door. I knock once.
“Come out, darling,” I say, voice even. “Dinner’s ready.”
A pause. Then, sharp and vicious. “No.”
I huff a breath through my nose, lean against the frame. “Don’t be like that.”
Silence.
“C’mon, Dove.”
A solidthudhits the other side of the door—followed by a heavythunkas something bounces against it and lands flat.
She threw her boot at the door.
My grin barely has time to settle before I hear it. That telltaleslam—closet doors being yanked open like she’s going to rip them clean off the hinges. And then the pause. I know what she’s seeing.
Rows of custom dresses, silk and leather and lace. Shoes in every style and shade she ever used to wear. Jewelry in glass trays. Coats lined in fur. Lingerie soft enough to make a man drop to his knees. All of it, for her. Not because I thought she’d come back. Because Iknewshe would.
I step back from the door. She’s about to come out swinging. And she’s going to look so goddamn good doing it. I don’t go far—just across the hall to the dining room. Sit at the long oak table I hadrestored last spring. Thought she might like it. Big enough for the holidays. Big enough for kids, eventually.
I pour the wine. No candlelight, no playlist, no fake ambiance. Just me and the echo of her stomping around, throwing a fit loud enough to rattle the beams. Boot hits the bedroom door a second later. I grin into my glass.
“Come eat, dove.”
“No,” she snaps through the door, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Another thud.
I raise my brows. “That wasn’t very ladylike.”
“Neither is kidnappingDublin’s Darling Daughter.”
