She came back alone.
I glance toward the hallway, cursing the voice in my head. Of course my thoughts would only want to focus on that. I can’t afford to be distracted by what if.
Her scent has already worked its way through the air with that soft trace of warmth curling beneath the fatigue. It’s the kind that stays under your skin, no matter how long it’s been.
I have to swallow a growl as I reach for the kettle.
She was never mine, not in any real sense. We were always somewhere in between, want without permission, heat without resolution, too much left unsaid between two people who didn’t know how to ask for what they needed.
But I felt it.
Still do.
The shift in the atmosphere when she’s near. The way every part of me sharpens when she touches my orbit.
And now she’s back, not as the fierce, unrelenting girl who stood in front of the council with fire in her eyes, but as someone barely holding herself upright, bruised and tired.
And she’s in my house.
I don’t hear the truck until it’s much too close.
The crunch of tires on gravel snaps me upright in the chair. Rosie’s laugh, bright and high-pitched, cuts through the quiet before the engine even stops.
Damn it.
I stand, bracing a hand on the doorframe, wondering how I’m going to explainthisto my sister and niece. Why a woman from my past is in our home.
The front door swings open, and there she is: Cassie Calloway, in jeans and a wrinkled sweater, two bags hanging off one arm and a squirming six-year-old wrapped around the other.
She makes her way into the foyer. “Beck, you better have coffee made because I?—”
She stops short, nose twitching.
Rosie peers around her hip, wide-eyed. “Why does it smell different in here?”
Cassie narrows her eyes. “What the hell is going on?”
I step into the hallway fully, trying to block the line of sight to the spare bedroom. “Cass, not now.”
“No, now, actually,” she snaps, pushing Rosie gently toward the living room. “Go play with your crayons, baby.”
“But I wanna see?—”
“Crayons. Now.”
Rosie pouts but obeys, skipping off with her usual bounce. The second she’s out of earshot, Cassie drops the bags and spins to face me.
“Is thather?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Cassie’s already marching toward the hallway, her instincts too sharp, too fast. I block her before she can pass me.
“Cass.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is Louisa Marsh in our house?”
“She’s in the spare room,” I say, low and firm. “She’s hurt. I’m waiting on Dr. Quinn.”
