We don’t talk much at first. The silence is warm here. The fire crackles, the gin loosens something in my ribs. There’s a knot in my gut that won't release until my husband and brother are home.
How far I’ve come from hating Hayden to sitting here, wrapped in a ball of worry, desperate for his safe return. When I met him, I despised his arrogance. I wanted to slap the smirk off his face. Now I can’t bear to be in a room without him. I feel like I can’t breathe without his instruction.
The first time he made me kneel, I wanted to vomit on his perfectly polished shoes. My body reacted as if it were rejecting the moment, a violent surge of emotion that I couldbarely contain. I remember how much Ishook with fury and humiliation at his control.
But that hatred didn’t last. It twisted into something deeper the moment he touched me with purpose. He turned me into his through force, through dominance, through depravity I never knew I was capable of craving. And I have never loved him more for it.
He stole me, stripped me of my life, my choices, my name. And in that ruin, I bloomed and became something I never would have recognized. I became his.
It may have been insanity to succumb to the beast that is Hayden, but I fell into his obsession. I allowed his desire for me to own and dominate my thoughts. I became addicted to his infatuation. His fascination with me revealed a side of self-appreciation I never thought I was capable of. I have never felt as powerful as I do under his deluded gaze.
It’s only our second round when I start to feel the flush in my cheeks.
The second martini disappears faster than the first, and I can feel it now—soft at the edges, a slow unraveling. My limbs are loose beneath the blanket, my thoughts fuzzed with gin and exhaustion.
I rub my feet together, trying to soothe myself through the worry. Dale sits silently, staring off into the fireplace with a glazed-over look.
The fire throws gold light across the room, and for a moment, I let myself pretend this is just an ordinary afternoon. That I’m not married to a man who would burn the world down for me, and that my brother isn’t a ghost coming back from the dead.
But it never lasts. The gnawing feeling returns, reminding me that my husband is off somewhere, enacting vengeance for my messed-up family dynamic.
I stare into the flames, my glass balanced on my stomach. “Do you think he’ll find Ford?”
Dale looks up from where she’s curled at the other end of the couch, eyes still glassy, cheeks flushed. “Hayden?”
I nod. We’re both tired and confused. I refuse to look away from the fire and sip at my gin, praying it makes all of my problems fade.
She shrugs, too slowly. “If anyone can, it’s them. I know they’ll find him. I know they'll find Ford.”
Her voice is quiet, bitter around the edges. I sit up slightly, narrowing my eyes.
“You’ve not been okay since learning Ford might be alive,” I state the obvious, the gin blurring my ability to combine words with grace.
“He was—” Dale cuts herself off, swallows hard. “He was important to me, and I know I haven’t mentioned, but Dex too…”
I don’t look away when I hear my brothers’ names. I won't. “What happened between you three?”
Dale’s gaze drops to her empty glass. She spins the stem between her fingers, then stops. She sets it on the table, and within moments the footman replaces it with another.
“Are you sure you want to know?” She asks hesitantly, and finally, I take in her face, for real this time. I see the pain, I know the worry, I take in the redness in her eyes and the puffiness of her cheeks, and I know. I need to know.
I nod.
“It was messy,” she says finally. “Ford used to come to my flat at Eulogia in the middle of the night, drunk or furious or both. Always needed something he couldn’t ask for out loud.”
“And you gave it to him?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course I did. He’s Ford,” she says. Like I would understand, forgetting he’s my brother.
There’s silence again—the fire crackles. Somewhere in the distance, a door closes—just the staff, I tell myself.
“And Dexter?” I ask, my voice quieter this time. I'm unsure of what I’m about to hear, but I know I need to nonetheless.
“It was complicated,” is all she says, leaving me more confused than when we started. It’s as though neither of us can bring ourselves to talk about Dex.
“What if Ford comes back and he’s not the same?” I whisper. “If Hayden’s right and Ford’s alive…what if he’s been twisted by whatever the Brotherhood had him do? Or whatever my uncle might have done?”
Dale doesn’t speak at first. She just watches the fire, her lips slightly parted, her hand tightening around the stem of her glass. I think she might stay silent, might bury whatever it is she’s been carrying. But then she exhales—long, slow, shaky.
