The rabbit cooked, filling the cabin with its warmth and scent. The fire crackled. The storm raged. I sat by the firetending to our meal with my mate nearby, and I couldn't remember ever feeling such contentment.
I served the rabbit on two of the plates Ellie had washed, the meat falling tender from the bone. We sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, our backs against the sofa, shoulders touching as we ate. Ellie savored the meat, making soft sounds of appreciation with each bite, and I found myself eating more slowly just to watch her enjoyment.
"This is really good," she said, licking juice from her thumb. "I didn't know you could cook."
"It's not cooking. It's just not ruining meat." I protested, but pleasure warmed my chest at her praise.
She laughed, a bright sound that made my wings flutter. Then she grew quiet, her gaze distant as she stared into the flames. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, tinged with memory.
"My husband loved places like this." She gestured vaguely at the cabin around us. "His uncle owned a cabin in North Carolina, up in the mountains. Not too different from this one, actually. Small, cozy, out in the middle of nowhere."
I stayed quiet, sensing she needed to talk, to share this piece of herself.
"We'd escape there whenever we could get away. Dalton would pack up the truck on Friday after work, and we'd just... go. Leave our phones in the glove box, pretend the rest of the world didn't exist for a weekend." A small smile played on her lips. "It was one of my favorite places. So peaceful. You could hear yourself think, you know? You could just... be."
Her fingers stilled on her plate, and I watched the memories playing across her face—some sweet, some painful.
"He'd make coffee at dawn, and we'd sit on the porch wrapped in blankets, watching the fog burn off the valley. He read while I sketched. Sometimes we wouldn't say ten words toeach other all day, but it never felt like silence. It felt like..." She paused, searching for the word. "Like being understood, I guess."
The ache in her voice made my chest tight. I set my plate aside and shifted closer, my wing extending behind her, sheltering without touching.
"He sounds like a good man," I said quietly, respecting the male she had loved.
"He was." She turned to look at me, her eyes bright. "He really was. And I think..." Her voice caught. "I think he would've liked you."
The compliment settled over my heart, heavy with meaning. To be measured against her lost love and not found wanting—it was more than I'd dared hope for.
"Thank you," I said, the words rough. Then, because I couldn't help but ask: "How did he die?"
She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze dropping to her hands. When she spoke, her voice was flat, carefully controlled.
"He was on the campaign trail. Running for reelection to his Senate seat." She drew a breath. "There was a rally in one of the poorer sections of the city. One of those outdoor events with crowds and music and food trucks and all the energy that comes with it. He loved that part. Connecting with people, hearing their stories."
I stayed silent, letting her find her way through it.
"I was supposed to be there." Her jaw tightened. "But that morning I woke up sick. Nothing serious, just a sinus infection, but I felt too bad to go. Dalton wanted to cancel and stay home with me, but I told him not to be ridiculous. That I'd be fine."
The guilt in her voice was palpable, and I felt my wing shift closer, wanting to hold her, though I didn't interrupt.
"So, he went. He and Adam and Jen, his two senior aides, plus a couple of bodyguards. They'd been with him since the beginning." She swallowed hard. "They were leaving the venue, walking to the car. And someone... someone drove by and opened fire."
My breath caught, but I forced myself to remain still, to let her continue.
"All five of them. Gone before the ambulances arrived." Her voice cracked, and she pressed her fingers to her eyes. "The police said it might have been gang-related, wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe political—Dalton had been pushing hard on criminal justice reform. They never found who did it."
"Ellie..."
"I was mad at him," she said suddenly, the words bursting out like they'd been held back too long. "Isn't that awful? He was dead, and I was furious. Furious that he'd left me. Furious at myself for not being there. If I'd just been there, maybe I could've—I don't know—seen something, done something." She laughed bitterly. "Or maybe I'd just be dead too."
I reached for her hand, covering it with mine. Her fingers were cold.
"And then I felt guilty for being angry. What kind of person gets mad at their dead husband? What kind of person resents someone for being murdered?" She turned to look at me, her eyes red-rimmed. "So I threw myself into politics. Worked myself half to death trying to finish what he started. I told myself it was to honor him, to carry on his legacy."
"But?" I prompted gently.
"But part of me was just... running. From the anger, from the guilt, from the empty house and the silent mornings and the fact that I didn't know who I was without him." She exhaled shakily. "I became Senator Eleanor Barrington Bradford, thenPresident Eleanor Barrington Bradford, because I couldn't figure out how to just be Ellie anymore."
I pulled her closer, tucking her against my chest, my wing wrapping around her shoulders. "You're allowed to be angry," I said quietly. "Grief isn't neat. It doesn't follow rules. And honoring him doesn't mean you can't also be furious that he's gone."
