Chapter 11
ELEVEN
ANNA
They say to leave the past behind, but what do you do when the past is present with you in a way you can't escape?
I stare down at the black leggings and black shirt that Mads barely tried to cover by burying under my other shirts in my laundry bin. The fabric is cool against my fingertips, but my skin burns with the suspicion of where these clothes have been.
The bedroom behind me is still dim, golden morning light barely filtering through the gauzy curtains.
The scent of warm skin and faint traces of Domhnall's cologne linger in the air.
His side of the bed is empty but still rumpled, the imprint of his body deep in the mattress.
My fingers tighten around the fabric of the black shirt in my hands, and my throat constricts with questions I'm afraid to ask.
When I woke up half an hour ago, I immediately noticed my sore nipples and the slight ache between my thighs. Which meant she and Domhnall had started having sex again. Thank god.
That means everything's getting back to normal.
At least that's what I thought before walking into the closet and finding this.
"You could join me in here, you know?" Domhnall calls from the shower, his voice carrying through the steam, husky and inviting.
My heart jolts in automatic response to his voice. Even when I try to keep my feelings measured, Domhnall unravels me with just a few syllables. Before coming back to him, I thought I was the calculated, even-tempered one and she was the overly emotional wreck. Ha.
I glance over my shoulder at the steam billowing from the ensuite bathroom. The sound of water hitting the tile fills the space with its steady rhythm, and through the frosted glass, I can just barely make out his silhouette—broad, strong, safe. My sanctuary and my sanity.
Does he know every time they sleep together, I wake up to the evidence of it still imprinted on my skin? Do I want him to know?
"Maybe next time, love!" I call back, forcing my voice to sound light and composed, though my thoughts are anything but.
Usually, I try to linger in the sensation of waking up with my body thoroughly loved, trying to imagine how it felt.
As if I can feel his hands like they must have been on me, trailing fire across my skin. Branding me as his.
But right now, all I can do is look back at the laundry basket and shove the dark clothes deeper in the hamper, burying them as if that will fix anything. As if secrets can disappear just by covering them up. I should know better.
Mads. She's reckless and selfish. She leaves me to clean up her mess without a care in the world. She's clearly up to something she's not supposed to be. Again.
Fuck, I don't have the luxury of spiraling. Not right now. I yank out my shoes from the back of the closet until I find them—the black hiking boots Domhnall bought for me. They were new, pristine, before a few weeks ago.
I flip them over.
Dammit. The soles are even more scuffed now, dirt caked in the ridges, telling stories of places I've never been.
My stomach clenches. How the hell did she have time to fuck Domhnall as vigorously as it feels like she did and still sneak out somewhere? The timeline doesn't make sense, but Mads has always been good at making the impossible happen.
I check our shared journal, heart thumping with apprehension. There's only a single line entry—
Don't tell Donny. If you do, I'll tell him your secret.
I slam the journal shut.
Bitch.
She's literally taking my body out on joyrides, God knows where, doing God knows what. And now she's threatening me. Holding my own secret over my head.
I grab a fistful of my hair and bring it to my nose, inhaling sharply. No hints of smoke. No foreign cologne. Just the lingering hint of Domhnall's scent, cedar and something uniquely him.
At least I can rest in the fact that she's obsessed with him. If anything, she's as desperate for his attention as I am. Even more so, maybe.
So where the hell did she go last night?
I'd go to Donny's office to pull up the security footage, but of course, there'd be nothing.
Just like last time. She covers her tracks well.
The Librarian trained us both, after all.
Not just Domhnall. Our monster of a father made sure we knew how to hide, how to lie, and how to not leave traces that we'd ever been there.
I heft the laundry basket and carry it to the laundry room.
If I can't get answers, I can at least erase the part of the night I can't explain.
I'll wash away the evidence like Lady Macbeth trying to clean blood from her hands.
Out damn spot. I may not have gotten to go to college, but I did get an e-reader and read everything I could get my hands on, new and old.
The scent of detergent and warm linen wraps around me as I shove the clothes into the washing machine. I pour in an extra dose of washing liquid, pressing the button with more force than necessary. The drum rumbles to life, swallowing up the evidence.
I brace my hands on the edge of the machine, breath uneven.
"You were just a terrified kid following orders," I whisper to myself, the mantra Dr. Ezra taught me.
But the past laughs at me in a voice that sounds far too much like Mads. What about the last few years? You weren't a kid anymore by then.
"Mads?" I whisper. "Is that you?"
Nothing. Just the hollow echo of my own voice.
I roll my eyes at myself. At her. I walk back to the kitchen, pausing for a second to listen, tracking Domhnall's movements.
The water in the shower has stopped running. Domhnall will be out soon, warm and damp, his hair curling at the edges like it always does when it's wet. The thought makes my heart skip, my fingers suddenly itching to touch those curls and wrap them around my fingertips.
I swallow hard, my throat dry.
My feet move on their own to the drawer beside the silverware. To the little plastic container that holds my birth control. The pastel case looks innocent enough, but its presence suddenly feels like a betrayal.
I hesitate. I don't have to do this.
I shouldn't do this.
But my fingers pop the pill out of the foil, and I step to the sink. I check over my shoulder. Once. Twice.
Then I toss the pill down the garbage disposal and flip the switch at the same time I turn on the water. The timing is perfect. Practiced.
The grinding sound fills the kitchen, loud, drowning out the tiny voice of conscience in my head.
I close my eyes and take a slow breath, bracing my hands on the counter. The ache between my legs is still there, a reminder of last night, of what Mads did in our body, with him. My palms press harder against the cool granite.
I can fix this. If Mads is reckless, then I will be methodical. If she takes, I will take more. I will win the life I deserve.
I've just turned off the water when I feel him behind me. His presence fills the kitchen, warm and solid, making the air seem thicker. My senses heighten, so attuned to him.
"Morning, love," he murmurs, his voice still rough from sleep, sending delicious shivers down my spine. His arms slide around my waist, and his lips find the curve of my neck, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there.
My heart flutters traitorously, but almost immediately I feel that familiar tightness in my chest—that warning sign I've come to recognize. The first hint that I might slip away and Mads might take over. That I might lose this moment before I've even had it.
I take a steadying breath and turn in his arms, careful to maintain a slight space between us.
My eyes drink him in—hair still damp, curling slightly around his ears just as I'd imagined.
Droplets of water cling to his collarbone, catching the golden morning light.
I want to lick them off. He's dressed in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, revealing the hard planes of his chest and muscled abs.
He's beautiful. And he's mine. Even if I can't have him the way I want.
He smiles down at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that's always been just for me. "What's for breakfast?" he asks, but the way his gaze drops to my lips tells me food is the last thing on his mind.
My throat tightens. I want him so badly it physically hurts, but I know what will happen if we go too far. I'll disappear, and she'll emerge. Again.
"I was thinking coffee," I reply, resting my hands lightly against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palms. "And maybe pancakes?"
His eyes soften with understanding, and he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead instead of my lips. "Pancakes sound perfect."
Relief and disappointment war within me. He knows. Of course, he knows. He's becoming just as attuned to the subtle shifts in me, and the invisible boundaries I can't seem to cross.
"I'll get started on the coffee," I say, slipping out of his arms and moving toward the cabinet where we keep the mugs. The physical distance helps me breathe easier, even as my body aches for his touch.
He leans against the counter, watching me with those perceptive eyes. "Did you sleep well?" he asks.
"Like a baby," I lie, keeping my back to him as I scoop coffee into the French press. I won't tell him about waking up sore. About finding the clothes. About the scuffed boots and threatening message. Not now, when the morning feels so fragile and precious.
When I turn back, he's closer than I expected, and my breath catches.
"Anna," he says softly, taking the press from my hands and setting it on the counter. His fingers interlace with mine, a simple touch that feels safer than others. "I love you."
Something about the way he says it—so earnest, so completely present—makes my eyes sting with sudden tears. He loves me. Not just her. Me.
"I love you, too," I whisper, and those words, at least, are nothing but truth.
He pulls me into a hug, just holding me, his chin resting on top of my head. It's chaste but intimate, this embrace. Safe. I let myself melt into it, breathing in his scent, memorizing the feel of his chest rising and falling against mine. His clean scent filling my nose.
"Let me make you breakfast," he says into my hair. "You sit. Relax."
I nod against his chest, reluctantly pulling away. As he moves around the kitchen gathering ingredients, I watch him, mentally tracing the lines of his body, loving him from this safe distance.
We're not like other couples. We can't be reckless and passionate, falling into bed on a whim. But we have this: quiet mornings, gentle touches, and a love that doesn't need physical consummation to be real.
For now, it has to be enough. At least until I can figure out how to fix this—how to fix me.
I press my hand against my abdomen, thinking of the pill I just discarded and the future I'm trying to secure.
"Chocolate chips in your pancakes?" Domhnall asks, glancing over his shoulder with a smile that makes my heart twist.
"Always," I reply, smiling back, letting the warmth of his gaze wash over me.
And if I have to fight to keep this warmth, this love, this man...
Then that's exactly what I'll do.