“He’s aware of my position on it.” Ian grins, crooked and unapologetic. “Took him about three years and one broken nose to accept it, but we got there.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“Things.” A pause. He leans back, stretching like he’s settling in for the long haul. “You want coffee?”
“I want answers.”
“Coffee first. Answers are above my pay grade before nine.” He stands. “Besides, you look like you could use it. Long night?”
Still keeping a firm hand on the knife, I sit. Because what the hell else am I going to do? My legs feel shaky, my skin too tight, and some pathetic part of me keeps waiting for the sound of Reth’s footsteps even though I know he’s gone. The silence in the house feels heavier without him. I hate that I notice. I hate that this stranger is here, acting like he belongs, like he’s going to be around long enough to learn how I take my coffee.
He moves around the kitchen like he’s been here a hundred times, pours two mugs without asking how I take mine, and slides one across the island. Black. Of course.
“I don’t take coffee from strangers.”
Ian rolls his eyes. “Fine. If I let you stab me, can we be friends? But just a flesh wound. Anything deeper than that, I’ll expect a blowjob. And for that, Reth will have my balls, which I’m pretty attached to at this point in my life.”
I don’t laugh. I can’t. My mind is still spinning on Reth—on the way he disappeared after breathing me in like he owned the scent, on the fact that he trusted this man enough to leave me with him. Protection or prison? I still can’t tell. And the worst part is… some stupid, traitorous corner of my heart is already wondering when he’s coming back.
Ian sighs dramatically. “This is gonna be a real long couple of days.”
I stand. “I’m going back upstairs.”
“Just FYI,” he calls after me, raising his mug in a mock toast, “I’m making margaritas at two. And I make a mean one. You’ll want to be here for that. Trust me.”
I end up in the seasons room.
I don’t decide to go there, I just do. It’s the way I always end up here, like the room pulls something in me I haven’t named yet. The same bench. The same window. The same mountains that don’t give a damn about any of this. I pull my knees up, wrap my arms around them, and stare out at the indifferent peaks while the thing sitting in my chest refuses to be ignored.
He left without a word, and I don’t like the way I’m feeling because of that. Like I have the right to be hurt by it. At least he cared enough to make sure I wasn’t alone.
Hours later, I’m still sitting there when footsteps hit the hallway. Ian fills the doorway holding a bottle of tequila, two shot glasses hooked between his fingers, and an apple.
He looks at me. Looks at the apple. Holds it out.
“Before you ask—yes, I’m aware you’re not a horse. But you haven’t eaten, and Reth will cut me if I let you starve, so.” He sets everything on the bench beside me. “Eat the apple, Crazy.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Crazy?”
“You speak to doors, you’re fucking crazy.”
“Oh my God,” I huff then take the apple.
He pours two shots, drops onto the bench beside me with the ease of someone who has never once been uncomfortable in an unfamiliar room with a person he doesn’t know, and hands me a glass.
I take it.
The glass is cool against my palm. Ian’s shoulder brushes mine as he settles in—not crowding, just… there. Like he’s done this a hundred times. Like he belongs in this house, in this room, in this moment, next to me. The thought should unsettle me. Instead, it feels strangely steadying.
He clinks his glass against mine. “To not getting stabbed before happy hour.”
I almost smile. Almost.
We drink, and the tequila burns clean and sharp all the way down. Makes me cringe a little.
Ian leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him like he’s settling in for the night. “So. You gonna keep staring at the mountains like they owe you money, or are we gonna talk about the fact that you look like someone kicked your puppy and then stole your favorite knife?”
I glance sideways at him. “You always this charming?”
