Then, slowly like in a nightmare, Darhg seems to understand my choice. He nods once, accepting the dismissal with the samestoic dignity he's shown throughout this entire nightmare. He turns around, preparing to leave.
At the threshold, he pauses and speaks directly to me, his voice quiet but absolutely certain. "I'm going to make this right. I promise you, Rona."
Then he steps past the agents into the bitter cold and out of my life.
The moment the door clicks shut, something essential tears apart inside my chest, the pain so intense I bend over in two. The sound of a woman crying fills the room, and it takes me a while to realize it’s coming from me.
But I don’t care. I’ve lost all reasons to care.
Chapter Twenty
Darhg
Thecabinsitsindarkness like a tomb, and I'm the ghost haunting it.
I lean back in my weathered chair, the leather creaking under my weight as I stare at the cold black mouth of the fireplace. The generator hums its low, monotonous song, but I've left all the electric lights off. Only the dying embers cast their orange glow across the wide-plank floors, throwing dancing shadows that seem to mock me with theircheerfulness.
Three hours. It's been three hours since Senator Quinn fired me. Three hours since Rona told me to leave. Already the silence feels like it's trying to swallow me whole.
I know it’s my fault. I put Rona in this position by falling for her.
Still, even with all that happened, I can’t bring myself to regret any of it.
My hands shake as I reach for a glass of water on the coffee table. The liquid sloshes around in the low light, but I don't drink it. I can't seem to make my throat work properly. Instead, I just hold it, watching the firelight catch and fracture through the crystal.
The paint supplies still sit on the kitchen table exactly where she left them, arranged like offerings to a goddess who's been stolen away. I close my eyes and immediately see Rona's face when she opened those art supplies. The way her eyes lit up like I'd given her the stars themselves. The soft gasp of wonder, the way she threw her arms around my neck and pressed her face against my throat. Never in my life had I ever felt that whole. That happy.
"You did this for me," she'd whispered. Of course I did. I would do anything for her.
Even leave.
All I wanted was to keep her happy forever. I wanted every day of her life to be spent in bliss and comfort. I wanted to be the man who gave her that.
The empty cabin echoes with phantom sounds, her laughter from the kitchen, the soft pad of her feet across these same floors, the way she hummed while she cooked. Everything here carries her scent, that sweet floral perfume mixed with my own musk, marking this space as ours in a way that makes my chest feel like it's caving in.
Mine.The word still echoes through my skull with brutal clarity. She’s my mate, and I failed to protect her.
The logical part of my brain knows it's not that simple. Knows she was protecting me as much as herself when she stayed silent while her mother threatened me. Knows the threat was real. Senator Quinn would have destroyed my career, made sure I never worked again if I'd fought back.
What Rona didn’t realize is that I would give my career, my money, my reputation away in a heartbeat to be with her. It would be the easiest decision I ever had to make.
The sound of tires on gravel cuts through my brooding, and I’m instantly on high alert. My body goes rigid, every instinct flaring to life even as my brain tries to process what I'm hearing.
It's not Rona. I know it’s not.
But hope is a stubborn thing, and it claws at my chest as I move to the window and peer through the frost-etched glass.
A small sedan I don't recognize sits in my driveway, its silver paint shining under the moonlight next to my black SUV. The driver's door opens, and a tall, slim figure unfolds himself fromthe cramped interior. Even in the darkness, I recognize the distinctive silhouette immediately.
Malcolm Bridgeman steps out into the cold night and casts a wide look around, his yellow eyes bright in the darkness. I can’t quite make out his expression in the distance and the dark, but I know it’s something close to disgust. Nature scenes are not really his thing.
Then I notice he's carrying a laptop bag, and that stubborn spark of hope in my chest rises up to life like a flare gun.
I open the door before he can knock, cold air rushing in to mix with the cabin's trapped warmth. Malcolm's pale-green hair is disheveled, his bright-yellow eyes wide with excitement.
"Oh, they’re good," he says without preamble, stamping snow off his boots as he pushes past me into the warmth. "But I’m better."
I close the door behind him, trying to wrangle my emotionsinto a semblance of order.
