Chapter 22
Harmony
That night Eric brought me back to one of the worker cabins on the property.
He figured if we were being watched, it was better we moved locations and didn’t stay in one spot.
I was sitting on the bed in the cabin, while Eric sat across from me at the small cabin table, his coffee untouched, his posture rigid in a way that told me he hadn’t slept.
The frost still clung to the windows, but the tension between us had nothing to do with the cold.
He’d gone over the confrontation with Olivier three times already; what he said, how fast it escalated, where Nico had stepped in.
Each time his jaw tightened like he was searching for a mistake he could fix after the fact.
“He wanted a reaction,” Eric said finally, rubbing a hand over his face. “Not just fear. Control. If this was just about your father, he’d have stayed in the shadows. Showing up like that means he’s testing boundaries.”
I nodded, though my thoughts were elsewhere.
On the encrypted message that had appeared and vanished from my laptop the night before.
On the failed login attempt that didn’t feel sloppy enough to be Olivier.
My brother was violent, impulsive, but this?
This was precise. Calculated. The kind of thing that tugged at instincts I’d spent years trying to bury.
Instincts I wasn’t ready to explain to Eric.
Not when admitting them meant admitting who I used to be. What I used to do.
“We’ll make him back off,” Eric continued, steady and certain. “Pressure. Visibility. He won’t like either.”
I hoped he was right. But a quiet, uncomfortable truth settled in my chest. If someone else was watching me, someone smarter, quieter than Olivier might only be the distraction.
Eric looked at me then, really looked. “There’s more you’re not saying,” he said gently.
The words sat between us, heavy. I thought of my mother’s voice, of the way Rosalie Bellerose used to hum while she cooked, calling me her little thistle, like strength was something soft and survivable. I thought of the night I left without saying goodbye.
“I know,” I said quietly. “I just… need a little time.”
He didn’t push. He never did when it mattered most. He just nodded once and reached for my hand, grounding me there until exhaustion finally claimed us both.
When I woke the next morning, frost veiled the small window beside the bed, glittering in the early light.
The hum of the wall heater filled the room, steady and low, just enough to keep the October chill from biting.
My shoulder still ached from where Olivier had shoved me, a dull reminder that safety in Val-Du-Lys could still splinter without warning.
The cabin was small but sturdy, with one bedroom, a tiny kitchen with a wood stove, and a table by the window overlooking the orchard.
The simplicity didn’t feel confining. It felt like a pause, the kind I hadn’t given myself in years.
Sandy had closed the shop for the long weekend after the break-in.
I was grateful for the breathing room. I pushed the quilt aside and stretched.
Then came the sound of boots on the porch, the familiar creak of the doorframe, and the smell of coffee that reached me before he even spoke.
Eric stepped inside, a backward baseball cap on his head, his plaid jacket dusted with frost. He carried two steaming mugs and a small paper bag, the scent of maple and butter trailing behind him.
“You’re up,” he said quietly, setting the bag on the counter.
“Barely,” I murmured, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “You’ve been out already?”
He handed me a mug. “Checked the orchard. Still a few late apples hanging on the north rows. And I dropped off an early delivery at the bakery.”
I tilted my head. “You’re running on no sleep, and you brought pastries?”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Maple Valley doesn’t ever stop.” He nodded at the paper bag. “Try one. They’re still warm.”
I opened it and the buttery scent hit instantly. It was sweet and familiar, like home. “Butter tart?”
“Thought you might like it,” he said.
I took a bite. The crust crumbled perfectly, the filling melting on my tongue in that rich maple-caramel way that made memories rise too fast. “This tastes like my mother’s.”
Eric looked up, brow furrowing softly. “Yeah? Must be one of the old recipes you left behind. Elise still has access to those,” he said, referring to one of his bakers.
Something heavy slipped into the room. The weight of my leaving town. The fact the only recipe I took with me was my mother’s lemon tarts. Rosalie Bellerose had been warm in all the ways the world wasn’t. Cooking, singing. Losing her cracked something in me that never fully healed.
“Eric,” I said softly, the need to explain rising sharp and fast.
“It’s okay, Harmony,” he replied too quickly. He wanted to shut the conversation down again.
“It’s not okay,” I said. My voice was quiet but steady. “You deserve the truth.”
He stilled, fingers curling around his mug.
“I didn’t leave because of you,” I said.
“I left because my father wouldn’t stop trying to pull me into his mess.
He was already using me to smooth things over with his clients.
Translating. Delivering packages. Looking the other way.
When I told him I wanted out after graduation, he said I didn’t get to want anything.
That I was part of the business whether I liked it or not. ”
Eric’s jaw flexed. “You could’ve told me.”
“I couldn’t,” I whispered. “He was watching everything. Every text. Every call. He knew you hated what he did. If I said anything, he would’ve used you to control me.”
His eyes hardened, but not with anger. With something deeper. “So you ran.”
“I ran,” I admitted. “It was the only way I’d survive it. And maybe I thought you’d hate me less if I just disappeared.”
He set his mug down with a quiet thud. “One day we were talking about leaving town after graduation, and the next, you were gone. No note. No word.”
“I know,” I whispered. “And I’ve lived with that guilt every day since.”
Silence pressed between us, broken only by the heater humming in the corner.
“I wanted to come back,” I said. “So many times. But every time I pictured Val-Du-Lys, all I saw was him.”
Eric took a slow breath. “You still should’ve told me. I would’ve fought for you.”
“You were eighteen,” I said softly. “You couldn’t fight Marcel. No one could.”
He ran a hand through his hair, his voice low. “You didn’t have to do it alone.”
“I know,” I whispered. “If I could change anything, it would be that.”
He didn’t speak right away. When he finally did, his voice was quieter. “Then let’s not waste what we’ve got left.”
I looked up, my throat tightening. The light from the window caught the faint gold in his hair, the tension in his jaw. His eyes held mine, steady and unflinching.
“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” he said. “You did what you had to do.”
His words cracked something inside me. His hand came up to brush a stray piece of hair behind my ear. The touch was soft and warm.
“I never stopped caring,” he added, voice rough. “You should’ve had someone in your corner. You should’ve had me.”
The words wrapped around me, warm and dangerous.
“Don’t,” I whispered, though my heart had already moved toward him.
“Too late,” he murmured.
He didn’t kiss me like he was relearning me.
He kissed me like he already knew exactly where I would break.
His mouth came down hard, claiming, familiar in a way that stole the breath from my lungs.
There was no pause, no question, just heat and pressure and the sharp relief of finally being held after everything that had gone wrong.
I made a sound into his mouth, something raw and unguarded, and his hand tightened at my waist like he felt it too.
“Damn, Harmony,” he muttered roughly against my lips, like the word was torn out of him.
My fingers were already in his jacket, shoving it back off his shoulders, needing the barrier gone.
He helped without thinking, shrugging out of it, hands immediately back on me; sliding, gripping, dragging me closer until the hard line of him pressed against my body in a way that left no room for doubt.
This wasn’t slow. We weren’t careful. It was hunger sharpened by fear.
His mouth moved down my jaw, my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make my knees weaken.
My hands shook as I reached for him, tugging at his shirt, impatient, breath coming too fast. When the fabric finally came free, I pressed my palms to his bare skin, grounding myself in the solid heat of him, the proof we were still here. Still standing.
Still alive.
He groaned low in his throat when I touched him, the sound vibrating straight through me.
Then he was pushing me back, guiding me urgently until I hit the bed and went willingly, pulling him down with me.
His weight followed, heavy and perfect, his mouth back on mine like he needed to remind himself I was real.
Our hands went everywhere. Our clothes forgotten on the floor.
Every touch was desperate, practiced, sure.
He knew exactly how to make my breath stutter, exactly where to press, and I knew the sounds he made when he was losing control.
Years apart hadn’t dulled it. If anything, they’d sharpened it into something dangerous.
I hooked my leg around his, anchoring him there, and he made a broken sound against my skin like restraint was no longer an option.
“Don’t slow down,” I breathed.
He didn’t.