Connor Orlov, shirtless, drenched in sweat, muscles flexing under skin that gleamed in the overhead light. The way his chest moved when he breathed. The width of his shoulders. The trail of dark hair below his navel disappearing into the waistband of those gray sweats, which sat low enough on his hips that I nearly forgot my own name.
I've been attracted to men before. I've had boyfriends, brief ones that Diomid scared off or that fizzled out on their own. I've felt the pull, the warmth, the curiosity. But I have never in my life felt my body react the way it just did. Like every nerve ending I have woke up at once and pointed in the same direction.
And it wasn't just the body, though God, the body was enough to make me lose my train of thought mid-sentence. It was the way he looked at me when he caught me staring. That moment of surprise, then something shifting behind his good eye, something loosening, like he'd been holding himself tight anddecided to let go, just a fraction. The teasing. The almost-smile. The way he leaned against the squat rack and just... let me look.
Like he was daring me to like what I saw.
I liked what I saw.
A shiver runs through me and I push off the wall, pressing my palms to my cheeks, willing the flush to die down. I can't walk into a kitchen at breakfast time looking like this. They'll know. Saoirse will definitely know I’m havingthoughtsabout her son.
I wonder if this is just relief. If the chemical cocktail of fear and escape and safety is playing tricks on my body, making everything feel more intense than it actually is. If I've been so numb for the last few weeks, so locked in survival mode, that the first time I feel something that isn't terror, my system overcompensates and turns it into raw, consuming want.
But even as I think it, I know that's not it. Not entirely. Because relief doesn't make your mouth go dry when a man drags a towel across his chest. Relief doesn't make you look at a man's hands and wonder what they'd feel like on your skin. Relief doesn't follow a scar with your eyes and find it makes the man more attractive, not less, because it's proof that he fought and survived and is still standing.
Something about Connor Orlov specifically makes my body light up. And I don't know if that's terrifying or wonderful, but I know I want to find out.
The kitchen is at the end of the hall, just where Connor said it would be. I hear it before I see it, the clatter of plates, a kettle whistling, voices layered over each other in the easy rhythm of people who've done this a thousand times. I smooth down Iris's borrowed T-shirt, run my fingers through my hair, and walk in.
It's chaos. The warm, loud, wonderful kind.
Saoirse is at the stove, spatula in one hand and a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder, flipping what looks like a small mountain of cinnamon waffles onto a plate. The kitchen is huge, but it feels full. Lived in. There's flour on the counter and a stick of butter melting in a dish and the whole room smells like cinnamon and coffee and something savory, bacon maybe, that makes my stomach clench with hunger.
"Anya." Saoirse spots me before anyone else does. "Sit down, sweetheart. Tea or coffee?"
"Coffee, please." I hover at the edge of the room, not sure where to put myself.
A woman with dark brown hair and kind eyes solves the problem by pulling out the chair next to her and patting the seat. "I'm Grace," she says. "Liam's wife." She's got a baby on her hip, a chubby boy with Liam's dark hair and her soft features. He's gnawing on a wooden teething ring and staring at me with wide, suspicious eyes.
"And this is Lorcan," Grace adds, bouncing him gently. "He's deciding if he likes you."
"Fair enough." I sit down and Lorcan studies me for another three seconds before shoving the teething ring back in his mouth and losing interest. Grace laughs.
"That's about as warm a welcome as anyone gets from him. You should feel honored."
Another woman at the far end of the table waves a fork at me. She's striking, sharp-featured and bright-eyed, and she's already halfway through a plate of waffles piled with berries. "I'm Katya. Killian's wife. And these waffles are the only reason I'm vertical right now, so if you go near them, I won't be held responsible."
"She's been craving waffles since the second trimester," says the woman beside her with an amused expression that tells meshe's been listening to Katya talk about waffles all morning. "I'm Tanya. Aidan's wife."
"How far along are you?" I ask Katya.
"Five months." She puts a protective hand on the curve of her belly. "This baby wants cinnamon in everything. Cinnamon waffles, cinnamon toast, cinnamon in my coffee, which Saoirse won't let me have because of the caffeine, so I'm drinking decaf like a prisoner of war."
"You're drinking decaf because it's good for the baby," Saoirse says from the stove without turning around.
"Prisoner. Of. War." Katya mouths silently.
Tanya catches my eye and shakes her head, and I feel something loosen in my chest. This is... normal. Loud and messy and warm and normal, in a way that my life hasn't been for weeks. Months, maybe. Diomid's house is quiet and clean and perfectly organized, because that's how my brother functions, but it's never felt like this. Like a place where people actually live, instead of just exist.
"Sit, eat." Saoirse sets a plate in front of me, two waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs, and a mug of coffee that smells strong enough to strip paint.
"She's right," a voice says from the doorway, and I turn to see a young woman who looks so much like Connor that it takes me a second to adjust. The same dark auburn hair, the same sharp jaw, the same green eyes, though hers come in a matched pair. Iris. I remember her from when we were kids and suddenly I feel emotional.
She drops into the chair across from me and steals a piece of bacon off Katya's plate.
"Touch my food again and I'll bite your hand off," Katya says without looking up.
Iris grins and turns to me. "So. You're marrying my brother."
