Lorcan opens the door as I carry her through. He reaches out, placing one hand against her cheek, and leans in to kiss her—gentle, possessive.
"Goodbye,a stór," he murmurs. "See ya soon."
I nod once.
The Aventador's scissor door rises as I approach, and I carefully maneuver Emmaleen into the passenger seat. When I reach across to buckle her seatbelt, she stirs slightly—just enough to sigh and smile at me before sinking back into whatever exhausted haze Lorcan left her in.
I slide into the driver's seat and pull away from the docks, then merge onto I-95 toward Rhode Island.
The highway stretches ahead—ninety minutes between Lorcan's cathedral of submission and our Providence estate.
I glance at Emmaleen.
Still out. Breathing steady.
I adjust my grip on the steering wheel and focus on the road instead of how I'm feeling.
Fucking sea glass.
I hate feelings.
They're so fucking messy.
Emmaleen stirs about twenty minutes into the drive, sighing softly. The sound pulls my attention sideways just as her lips curve into a small, sleepy smile.
Without opening her eyes, she murmurs, "Did you have a nice trip to New York?"
I look at her fondly, cataloging the exhaustion written across her features. "No," I say quietly. "It was work."
I pause.
"Didyouhave fun?"
Her smile widens, and she snuggles deeper into the Aventador's seat, burrowing into the leather like it's a goddamn blanket.
"Thebesttime," she whispers. Then one eye opens—just barely—finding mine with hazy focus. "When I have to be away fromyou, that is."
The ache in my ribs shifts.
Twists.
Settles like cool hazy green glass that looks like it's been tossed in the sea for eons and finally washes up on a beach.
I smile—small, involuntary.
"Sleep," I tell her softly.
She hums her agreement and lets her eye drift shut again, head tilting toward me even as her body relaxes completely.
I keep driving.
When we pull through the gates of the Providence estate, she's still mostly unconscious. I kill the engine and circle to her side, lifting her out carefully. She doesn't wake. Just curls into my chest like she belongs there.
I carry her through the house, past the library she designed, up the stairs to the second-floor master bath.
The space is all marble and glass—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the expansive lawn that ends with Narragansett Bay, rainfall shower, soaking tub big enough for four people.
I set Emmaleen down on the velvet bench near the tub and turn to draw the bath. Hot water pounds into pristine white porcelain while I adjust the temperature.
