Bianca
It's beenthree weeks since the night I discovered who my mother really was. She hasn't reached out to me, not once. Three weeks since my world shattered and reformed into something darker, surer, sharper—but truer.
Three weeks since I stopped fighting what I know, what we are. The McCarthy family house has become home, and Ashland's arms are my sanctuary. Somewhere in the quiet, between his possession and my surrender, I've found a peace I never knew existed.
I miss the cabin, and I look forward to going back. Apparently, he used to own a flat right here in the city, but then bought the cabin after he started tracking me. It's so Ashland to make such a dramatic gesture for someone he'd never met, but already claimed as his own.
Makes me laugh when I think about it. I miss that quiet solitude. I miss Lancelot, and I look forward to going back.
But here—here with the McCarthys—we have family. Anyone who has both solitude and family is the richest person there is. Tonight, the peace that comes with finally accepting who I am fills the kitchen, where I stand arranging plates while Ashland moves behind me, his body a wall of heat at my back.
But right now, all I can think about is that I'm meeting his parents tonight. What are they going to think of me? I've seen pictures—he's told me about them, and he loves them—but what if they don't like me?
“You look beautiful,” he whispers in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “So fucking beautiful. Look at you.”
I’m wearing a dress I borrowed from Bronwyn.
If you'd asked me a month ago what I thought of Bronwyn McCarthy, I would have said she was absolutely gorgeous and completely untouchable. Now here I am wearing her clothes. Shows just how much my mother's poisoned perception got into my head. Bronwyn's beautiful, and I can be too.
And Iambeautiful.
It's a pretty sweater-sheath dress that hugs my curves and dips just low enough to show a hint of cleavage in the front. Warm and pretty but practical. Kyla braided myhair. She's quiet and reserved but loyal—her fingers patient and careful. Erin lent me the most beautiful emerald necklace that catches the light when I move. And Aunt Caitlin lent me a pair of black flats.
I haven't bought any new clothes since we came here because the McCarthy women have so many—they've kept me completely outfitted. It’s fun, like I'm the little sister who gets to raid everybody's closet.
I just want it to be perfect.
I lean back into Ashland, letting him take my weight. “Your parents haven't seen you this—you know, settled. And I don't want to?—”
“They'll love you.” His mouth brushes my temple, soft despite the roughness of his voice. “They'll see how much I do, andthey will.” His hands find my hips with that casual ownership that still makes my breath catch. “You're working yourself into a state.”
“But they don't know me?—”
“They know enough.” His grip tightens just a bit. “They know you're mine and that I love you, and that's all that matters.”
It’s hard to imagine a world in which that’s… enough.
I turn in his arms, looking up at his scarred, beautiful face that has become the center of my world. “Ash?—”
He kisses me, one hand threaded through my hair to tilt my head exactly how he wants it, deep, possessive,thorough. When he pulls away, my cheeks are hot, and I'm breathless.
“No more fussing now,” he says firmly, tapping my chin with his index finger. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper. The words are automatic and natural now, clicking something into place between us that I crave.
I love the dark hunger that flashes in his eyes. “Keep that up, and we'll be having a very different kind of dinner party of our own, love.”
Before I can respond, gravel crunches outside. Ashland's body tenses, his hand automatically going to his waistband before he forces himself to relax.
“It's just them,” I whisper, pressing closer. “Just your parents.”
He exhales and nods, but he doesn't fully relax until he looks out the window and confirms it himself. Always vigilant, always protecting, even when it's his own family arriving.
Nolan McCarthy is an older, slimmer version of his son, with blondish-silver hair and silver eyes touched with blue. He has the same aura of barely contained violence wrapped in Irish charm.
His mam is softer, with gray hair pulled into a practical bun, but I can see the steel beneath her kind exterior. Ashland tells me she was an investigative reporter in her day.
“Bianca,” she says warmly, pulling me into a hug before I can even tense. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
