“Running away already?” Her voice is soft and teasing, but there’s an edge of concern in it that tenses up the muscles in my shoulders.
I turn to see Sophia standing by the counter, her head tilted slightly as she studies me. She’s shed her coat, revealing a fitted sweater that hugs her curves.
“Just needed a breather,” I say, my voice low. “Your family’s… intense.”
She smiles, stepping closer. “They mean well. And Pete seems to be having the time of his life.”
I glance back at the living room, where Pete is now hanging ornaments under her brother’s watchful eye. “Yeah. He does.”
Her expression softens, and for a moment, we just stand there, the noise from the living room fading into the background. She’s too close. I can smell the faint scent of cinnamon on her skin, mingling with the pine and gingerbread that’s overtaken the house. My pulse quickens.
My gaze falls to her prosthetic arm as it glints faintly under the kitchen lights. I’ve seen it before, but now, with her standing this close, it feels like a challenge—a symbol of her strength and resilience that puts my own emotional scars to shame.
I take a deep inhale, letting the air out slowly as I gather the nerve to ask her something that might be too painful for her.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you this. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. But I really want to know you better.” I pause for a heartbeat to collect my thoughts. She nods as if to give me permission. “What happened to your husband? How did your marriage end?” My questions hang between us, rough and jagged.
Her face stills, the playful light in her eyes dimming as she draws a ragged breath. Slowly, she lifts her left arm, pulling back the sleeve of her sweater to reveal the charred, mottled skin above the prosthetic. The sight of it hits me like a punch to the gut. Not because it disgusts me or anything like that. My body reacts to the idea of her suffering. This kind of damage results from prolonged agony, and this realization shatters my heart.
“This,” she says, her voice soft but laced with bitterness, “is what happens when someone you love loses control. It’s a charming memento my late husband gave me when he woke up one night from a drunken stupor.” She tilts her head, a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes playing on her lips. “He thought our bedroom was too cold. So he poured kerosene on the bed and set it on fire.”
The images flood my mind, sharp and raw, stealing my breath. My chest tightens as I envision her in that moment, trapped with a man she once trusted, a man who destroyed her. And yet here she is, standing in front of me, unflinching and unbreakable.
My hands tighten into fists at my sides, the sharp bite of my nails digging into my palms the only thing grounding me. I want to reach for her, to brush my fingers over her sleeve and tell her that she’s safe now and that I’d never let anyone hurt her again. But I can’t. I’m frozen in place, the weight of her pain pinning me to the spot. All I manage is a step closer, hoping my presence might somehow bridge the chasm her words have opened.
“He didn’t survive,” she continues, her tone flat and distant, like she’s reciting the facts. “And honestly, he didn’t want to. He’d given up long before that night. He drank until he passed out every single day. Nothing I did to try to help him mattered in the end. Even though I believed him all the times he promised me he’d changed. Nothing I did could’ve saved him. He didn’t want to be saved.” She shakes her head as if pulling herself out of that nightmare.
“Sophia…” My voice falters, and I hate myself for it. I’m supposed to be the strong one, the one who doesn’t flinch in the face of darkness. But this—her pain, her strength—it’s too much.
She shrugs, pulling the sleeve back down as if to close the door on the conversation. “I’ve put it all behind me.”
Not really. I can see it in her eyes, the way the hurt lingers just beneath the surface, as fresh as the day it happened. And it makes me want to burn the whole fucking world for her, to set things right. If that sorry excuse for a husband hadn’t killed himself, I’d gladly tear his limbs apart, watching him squirm.
Before I can say anything else, Pete bursts into the kitchen, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. Bubbling with energy, he announces, “Dad! Cynthia’s here!”
I clear my throat, turning away from Sophia to face my son. “Okay, bud. Go grab your stuff.”
He nods and darts back toward the living room, and I take a steadying breath before looking at Sophia again. Her expression is guarded now, the moment between us slipping away.
“I promised Pete he could stay over at his nanny’s tonight. She’s having a sleepover,” I say, my voice rough from the emotions I’m trying to swallow. “I should get him ready.”
She nods, her smile small and tight. “Of course.”
I walk toward the front door, where Pete’s bouncing and waving at me. Sophia’s words echo in my mind, a poignant reminder of the pain we both carry. Sophia went through hell and came out on the other side. She’s dealing with her past trauma in a much healthier way than I am. I admire her resilience. I enjoy her company. Could I make room for something more than shadows in my life? Dare I dream of something brighter for myself? Do I deserve light at all?
13
SOPHIA
The sight of Ray bending to buckle Pete into the nanny’s car pulls at something deep inside me—a feeling I can’t quite name but can’t seem to ignore. His movements are deliberate, his broad frame blocking the rays from the streetlights. Pete chatters away, his voice muffled through the glass, and Ray nods, ruffling the boy’s ginger hair. Ray’s expression when he straightens up displays so much softness that it makes my heart flutter. He rarely shows this kind of emotion. This side of him—the father, the protector—clashes with the sharp-edged danger that clings to him like a second skin. And it leaves me reeling, my world tipped sideways.
I linger by the doorway of his house, watching as the nanny drives away. Ray stands for a moment, his hands in his pockets, his posture tense. He turns his head slightly, and for a heartbeat, our eyes meet. There’s something there—something dark, magnetic, and impossible to look away from. My breath catches, and I force myself to break the connection, retreating inside where my family is packing up their holiday invasion.
The living room is a whirlwind of half-empty boxes and loose strands of tinsel. My mom’s voice carries as she organizes ornaments with precision while Dad jokes with Ben about the tree looking like it might topple over. It’s all so warm, so normal, and yet I feel like a ghost moving through it, my mind stuck on Ray’s piercing blue gaze and the way my blood rushes down my body every time he says my name.
Ray steps inside a few minutes later, his boots clicking softly against the polished wood floor. His presence shifts the energy in the room—subtle but undeniable. My mom gives him a warm smile, my dad a casual wave, and Ben salutes Ray as if they were in the military. And maybe that’s because of how Ray carries himself. He’s got this air of command and discipline that imposes respect. The damn thing for me is that these vibes connect to my submissive tendencies on levels I’ve never experienced before. I want to explore my wild side, give in to his demands, and allow Ray to pleasure me however he sees fit. The possibilities are tempting and breathtaking, but when they threaten to undo me, I shake my head and focus on the scene unfolding in front of me.
“Thanks for letting us take over your house,” my mom says, handing Ray a box of leftover decorations. “You’ll have to come by for Christmas dinner.”
