Dirty Delivery (Bound & Delivered #1)

Chapter Twenty

Rylan

“Honey, I’m home!” I call out as I step through the front door, my voice echoing through the cavernous mansion. The usual silence follows, save for the faint creak of the floor beneath my boots.

Nothing. No sarcastic quip. No sound of hurried footsteps. My chest tightens as I toss my keys onto the table by the door, scanning the room for any sign of her.

“Savannah?” I call again, my voice louder this time, sharper. The stillness stretches, crushing against my ribcage like a vise.

Where is she?

I move through the main floor. My steps quicken as I check the library, the den, even the sunroom. Each empty space only fuels the panic rising in my chest.

Did she leave? Did someone take her?

I shake my head, trying to drown out the spiral of worst-case scenarios.

“Savannah!” My voice bounces off the high ceilings.

Nothing. My heart hammers as I jog up the stairs two at a time, my mind racing. She wouldn’t just leave. She knows the danger. But still . . .

Bursting into her room, I scan the space. Empty. The bed is neatly made, her scent faint but still lingering in the air.

I run my hand through my hair, my breath coming faster. Think, Rylan. Where would she go? She wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave the house . . . would she?

I’m about to head to the back gardens when a sound stops me. Faint, melodic, and coming from . . . the kitchen?

I turn back down the hallway, my movements slower, quieter now. As I near the kitchen, the soft strains of a lilting Irish tune dances into the hallway, accompanied by low laughter.

Rounding the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.

Savannah stands at the counter, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders as she helps Noreen chop vegetables. She’s barefoot, wearing one of those flowy sundresses that hugs her in all the right places, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. The sight of her here, in my kitchen, looking so at ease, so . . . at home, is enough to short-circuit my brain.

Noreen is humming as she dices onions, her voice carrying the melody of a song I’ve heard since I was a kid. Savannah’s lips twitch as she tries to follow along, though she’s clearly not familiar with the tune.

The relief that washes over me almost overwhelms my senses. She’s safe. She’s here. And, for once, she doesn’t look like she’s ready to bolt at the first chance she gets.

She looks . . . happy.

I lean against the doorway, crossing my arms as I take her in. She’s radiant, a goddess among mortals, and the way she moves—confident, yet unassuming—has me utterly transfixed. This house was always just a building to me, a place to escape the chaos of the outside world. But now? Now it feels alive. It feels like home.

If I had my way, it would stay this way. She’d never leave. This wouldn’t just be my house—it would be ours.

As if sensing my gaze, she glances up, her green eyes locking onto mine. Her lips part slightly in surprise, and then she narrows her eyes in mock annoyance.

“You scared me,” she says, placing the knife down. “Do you always sneak up on people?”

“Didn’t think I’d have to sneak, you weren’t exactly answering when I called.”

“Maybe because you sound like a deranged husband coming home from work,” she teases, though there’s a softness to her tone that wasn’t there before.

“Deranged husband, huh?” I step closer, unable to keep the grin off my face. “You’re the one barefoot in my kitchen, Savannah. You sure that analogy works?”

Her cheeks flush, and she turns back to the cutting board, muttering something I can’t make out. Noreen’s laugh rings out, and I shoot her a grateful look.

“Dinner smells good.” I lean over the counter to catch a better view of Savannah’s handiwork.

“I can’t take all the credit for this,” Savannah replies, lifting an eyebrow at me. “Noreen did most of the work.”

Noreen waves a hand dismissively, her voice warm and teasing. “Oh, don’t be modest, love. She’s the one who asked me to show her where everything was in this big kitchen. Next thing I know, she’s roped me into chopping onions and preparing dinner like it’s her own house!”

Savannah’s cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink, and she glances down at the cutting board. “I just wanted to help. You’ve been doing so much already.”

Noreen chuckles, patting Savannah’s arm. “You’ve got a good one here, Mr. Doyle. Don’t let her slip away.”

I chuckle and reach out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. She stiffens for just a moment before her body visibly relaxes, and it’s in that tiny movement that I know—she’s starting to trust me. Starting to see this place, this life, as something more than just a cage.

“You keep cooking like this,” I whisper low enough only she can hear, “and I’ll think you’re trying to domesticate me.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faintest hint of a smile when she turns back to the counter. And just like that, the tension that’s been coiled in my chest all day finally unravels like a knot coming undone. She’s safe. She’s here. And for now, that’s enough.