I widened the search and used different spelling variations of the surname. Maternal lines instead of paternal. Church registries instead of civic ones.
And then I found the first record that didn’t belong where it was. Not a baptism entry, not a marriage in the church ledger. A community archive preserved by a historical foundation. Handwritten records scanned page by page, the ink faded, but still legible if you leaned close enough to the screen.
The name was there. Not the version used now. The one from before.
For a long time, I stared at it, convinced I had followed the wrong branch of the family tree. That I’d crossed into someone else’s history by mistake. So I checked again and again.
Every cross-reference I ran pulled the line back to the same village, the same family structure, and the same cluster of names echoed across decades.
Somewhere along the way, the name had shifted. Documentation had changed. The paper trail had been adjusted very carefully. Like someone understood exactly how dangerous a surname could become depending on the decade.
I slept like crap for three hours, and then I came downstairs. The laptop is still open on the table. Tabs everywhere. Notes scribbled into the margins of printed documents. Dates circled. Lines of ancestry traced with the obsessive focus that only shows up when something personal and historical collide.
All this time, he has carried the weight of a narrative tied to geography and assumption. All this time, the truth has been sitting quietly in archives no one bothered to read closely enough.
I wrap my fingers around the mug again and take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle into my chest.
I know how he jokes about others’ views of him and Kilovac. But I saw what happened when Anna was ambushed. For those reasons alone, I can’t wait to show him what I found, if for no other reason than to never have him look at me the way he did that night, like he was afraid he was going to lose me… us, and trying to figure out what it would take to keep us.
I hear the front door open and smile as I set the mug down on the island when he says, “Fuck.”
I take my time walking to the door.
The chain I installed still bars him from entering. I mean, he could easily break it, but I know he won’t.
I know this with certainty.
When he sees me, he straightens a little and asks, “You gonna let me in?”
I try to look as angry as I was last night when I say, “To my house?”
He closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath.
“Your house, our home,Schatz.”
Damn him.
“You contacted my father.”
“Ourlawyer contacted your father,” he states calmly.
“I didn’t hire a lawyer. I?—”
“Wehired him.”
I stare at him through the small opening of the door and finally admit, “I’m too tired to argue.”
He nods once, completely unfazed. “Perfect. So now would be a good time to tell you I met your mother and she’s a wretched bitch.”
I shut the door in his face, hard, then I lean my forehead against it and sigh.
One second. Two. Three.
I slide the chain back and open the door.
“I showered off Ryker’s before I even came here. You can be pissed,Schatz,but first kiss me.”
I grab the front of his coat and pull him close, my breath hitches, my throat tightens, my heart beats faster, and my tummy flutters.
