The clock ticks loudly in my head. Every distant footstep, every soft creak, every rustle of a page outside the kitchen door makes me flinch. Every sound could be Gideon. My father. Danger. Trey. My pulse hammers. I whisper, almost to myself,
“What if he doesn’t want me here?”
Clay leans closer instantly, voice firm but kind.
“Then he wouldn’t have told you to come. He’s coming, and that means something.”
I swallow hard, letting the words settle like stones in my chest. My shoulders relax slightly, a little of the tension bleeding out. I curl deeper into the blanket, letting the soft wool wrap around me, the fire crackles and pops in the hearth, the warmth of the cocoa seeping into my fingers. The Rosewood is safe.
But fear lingers. It always lingers. Every step I’ve taken to reach here was a gamble, and my mind keeps mapping every exit, every corner, every shadow. I check the door almost reflexively, listen for any sound outside the kitchen, any approaching figure. Every creak makes my stomach twist. Every wind gust rattling the windows makes my throat tight.
I sip the hot cocoa slowly, letting the sweetness fill my mouth, warm my throat, ease the ache that’s been gnawing at me. I try to focus on the taste, the softness of the blanket, the warmth from the fire. I try to focus on anything that isn’t the memory of Gideon’s eyes, the way his hands reached for me. But his ghost lingers.
Dean notices my restlessness, and he leans against the doorway, calm, patient. “Take your time,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything right now but be here. That’s all.”
Clay hums again, distractedly talking about how Mackayla once wandered in lost and scared. “Even the strongest girls get a little broken sometimes,” he says quietly, almost to himself. I let the words thread into my chest. Maybe being broken isn’t the end. Maybe there’s a way back.
The bacon sizzles and pops, the eggs hiss on the pan, and the smell of food swirls around me. Dean moves to the stove again, adjusting the heat. The room is alive, humming, breathing around me, but nothing feels threatening. It’s almost too easy to believe, almost too simple. I watch Dean plate him and Clay their breakfast.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the firelight paint shadows behind my eyes. The Rosewood hums around me. I curl further into the blanket, Trey’s paper pressed into my palm, my curls warm against the towel Dean offered. The storm outside feels distant. For the first time in forever, I let myself believe I’m free.
Chapter thirteen
Trey
Beside You – Marianas Trench
The taxi tires hiss against wet pavement, and my stomach is doing somersaults. Every heartbeat is a drum in my chest, every breath shallow and ragged. Portland smells different than Vancouver—damp leaves, wet asphalt, faint smoke from chimneys—and yet beneath it all, there’s that same old weight of anticipation, the kind that makes my hands shake. I’m staring at the Edwardian façade of The Rosewood, its white paint dulled by years of rain, windows framed with dark wood that has seen countless storms. It should feel normal, but it doesn’t. Not this time. Not with her inside.
I clutch my bag tighter, chest constricting as I wonder if she’s okay. It still feels unreal. I don’t know if I ever really believed I’d see her again—especially after the last run-in with her piece-of-shit dad. And now… now I have.
Wait. Hold up.
Seraphina’s basically a nun.
I’ve got a troubled nun in a bed-and-breakfast run by hot, overly wholesome brothers. Jesus Christ, I’ve walked straight into a Hallmark movie. All I need is a Christmas market, some tragic backstory, and a golden retriever with abandonment issues, and this shit would sell.
That makes me the bad boy.
The bad boy with daddy issues.
And the nun? She’s got daddy issues, too. Her freak matches mine.
I’m still mentally casting the made-for-TV version of my life when the door swings open and Dean fills the frame, rudely interrupting my inner monologue.
Stupid sexy do-gooder.
Is he some kind of Ned Flanders nice-guy pervert? Him and his brother—oh shit. Rod and Todd. That’s who they are. The Flanders boys, all grown up and sin-free.
Dean just watches me patiently, arms crossed, that calm, polite look that makes me feel like I just got caught smoking behind the church.
“You got here faster than I thought possible. You fly commercial?”
I shrug, because honestly, I have no idea.
“Uh… I don’t think so? There were only, like, eight seats.”
“Whatever,” he says, voice lowering as his eyes flick toward the kitchen. “Your guest is inside. We’ve been keeping her warm.”
