Afon's beard is gone. All of it. He shaved it down to nothing, and underneath is a jaw I've only ever seen in shadow. It's square and hard and clean. It belongs on a magazine, honestly, if not the freaking MOMA. He's in one of those suits from the closet. The one he chose is black as midnight. It fits him perfectly, and I remember that Lukas isn't the only one with unearthly proportions. Huge shoulders stretch the jacket to its limit, and above the V of the white, open-collar shirt, I spy the tip of that eight-pointed star tattoo. His hair is combed back, still damp, dark but shot through with gray.
It's like one of those teen movies, where the girl takes off her glasses and shakes out her hair and everyone gasps. Except backwards. And real. Mountain Man Afon, with the woodpile and the cans of beans and the moose head, is gone.
In his place is this.
Filthy Rich Afon.
Mr. Satyrin.
Then I look at his eyes.
And any heart flutters I might've been feeling die a quick and brutal death.
Because they're concrete again. There's nothing behind them. No fire. No lust. No half-inch crack. Certainly no trace of love.
It's the most honest thing about him, those eyes. The suit is a costume. The cabin was a costume, too, I'm realizing. But the eyes… the eyes are the man. Closed-off, chained, deadbolted. A man who killed and lied and pulled my father into the dark and let me fall for him anyway because he's a selfish bastard.
Thisis who he is.
The realization guts me. It scoops me out clean.
"Okay," I say, numb and resigned.
He frowns. "Okay what?"
"I'll marry you." I don't even recognize the deadened voice coming out of my own mouth. "That's what you wanted to know, isn't it? That's why we drove three hours. So I could see all this and understand what I'd be marrying." I gesture at the suit, the apartment, the man, and all he represents. "Well. I see it now."
His frown deepens. "Are you sure you?—"
I turn back to the window so I don't have to look at his face. "Eyes open. Isn't that what you keep saying? Well, they're fully open now. So let's get this shit over with."
32
CAROLINE
The wedding is the day after tomorrow. That's what Lukas decided, anyway. I didn't get a vote, which feels about right for how the last two weeks have gone.
We drove back from the apartment in the same thorny silence we left in, Afon in his suit looking like a stranger, me in the corner of the SUV staring out at the dirty snow piled along the highway. By the time we got back to the big house, it was dark. I went straight to the guest room I'd claimed and shut the door.
I didn't sleep much.
In the morning, there's a knock.
I assume it's the woman in gray, or maybe Afon, so I almost don't answer. But the knock comes again, followed by a voice I recognize.
"Caroline? It's Cass. Open up before I have these very large men break the door down."
I scramble off the bed and open it.
Cassandra Snyder stands in the hallway in jeans and a cream sweater, her dark hair pulled back, looking exactly the same as she did at her cousin Dani's wedding six months ago, when I last saw her. Behind her are two other women I half-recognize. One has red hair and freckles and a build that fills out her clothes in a way that makes me self-conscious about my own week-on-a-mountain situation. The other has dirty-blonde hair, brown eyes, and a softness to her face that doesn't match this enormous cold house at all.
"Cass," I say in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"What amIdoing here?" She pushes past me into the room and the other two follow. "My friend disappeared on a 'wellness retreat' two weeks ago, then I find out she's actually been up a mountain getting shot at by Russians, and now, she's gettingmarriedin two days, and you think I'd miss that?"
"Lukas called us," explains the redhead. She sticks out a hand. "Jillian. I'm Lukas's son's—" she stops. "It's complicated. Everyone here is complicated. You'll get used to it."
"Rae," says the blonde, with a small wave. "I'm married to Lukas."
