Chapter 22 HOLLOW IN MY HEART
“I know you said it’s closed, but I still want to go,” I murmur from the backseat.
Ren’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and he sighs.
After the incident in his office—temporary insanity or Stockholm Syndrome, take your pick—Elias is dodging me again.
But at least I can leave the house now.
The realization sits wrong. Did I buy my freedom by grinding against my jailer? And what does it say about me if I want to do it again?
Because the sounds of his strangled breaths and the burn of his hands on my body, like getting me off was his sole purpose? They’re carved into my mind, and creep in when the house is quiet. And I refuse to untangle my complicated knot of emotions.
To distract myself from these unhelpful thoughts and to do something I’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t while I was imprisoned, I asked Ren to take me to Hollow Gardens for my first outing.
Ren grunts his disapproval again, pointing at the darkening skies.
It looks like it might snow—the weather in Chicago is as volatile as the man I married.
“I’ll make it quick. I just need to do something,” I reassure him, clutching the small box in my hand.
A slice of Hannah’s tiramisu.
It’s been my biggest regret since moving to Chicago—not lighting a candle for Kian by our elm tree at Hollow Gardens for his birthday.
Wrought-iron gates, tipped with the gray sludge of dirty snow, loom before us. My heart clenches, ghosts of the past twirling behind my eyelids.
Before the car comes to a stop, I wrench open the door and hop out.
My boots clomp on the snow piled on the curb, and my lungs heave in icy needles of winter air. A sudden gust almost knocks me off my feet as snow drifts from the sky. I wrap my jacket tighter around my body as I follow the fence to the towering metal sign with the gothic lettering.
Hollow Gardens.
The letters are rusted with age.
I shake the gates.
But as Ren said, it’s locked.
A yellow sign hangs to the side—under renovation.
My mind shifts to the permit I saw on Elias’s desk. Why would he have it? What does he want with the park?
My breath comes out in a cloud of white. I spot our elm tree in the distance, its barren branches straining toward the sky.
Memories flicker through my mind.
Kian’s bleached blond hair covering his brilliant green eyes. How he’d cup my icy hands in his, blowing warmth into them. The gentle smile curving his lips when he’d give me pricey chocolates out of his budget—Geraldine’s—every time we’d meet here.
But he’d always say, “Anything for your smile.”
There were no five-course meals, no fancy cars. But there was one thing he gave me that no man unrelated to me ever did before or after him.
Genuine love. One stripped of my last name or bank account.
When I first met him, I went by my middle name because I didn’t want to be the Lana Anderson, the precious Anderson princess. I wanted to be me—just me.
And Kian? He made me feel his Elise was enough.
And in those stolen moments—strolls in the park, dreams of the future—his presence and love were priceless.
Kian would look at me the way Dad stared at Mom in our photo albums.
And then he disappeared. I had no closure. My heart never moved on.
The wind lets out a mournful wail. My mitten-clad hands shake as I pull them off, fingers stiff.
Quickly, I open the box, push in a candle, and reach for the lighter in my pocket.
It sputters on, but a gust steals the flame away.
“Come on,” I mutter, sparking it again.
But nature doesn’t cooperate. Instead, frigid wind and thickening snow stab my face like glass shards.
Then, the snow stops.
Vetiver and smoke drift to my nose. My skin hums with awareness.
A spot of red—his umbrella—shields me from the elements, like some echo of a memory I can’t catch.
Elias stands next to me, silent in his gentleman gangster attire, all harsh lines and strong angles, complete with leather gloves.
He pulls his lighter out of his pocket, flips it open, and lights the candle for me.
My heart hammers against my rib cage.
Suddenly, I’m lightheaded.
“Why are you here?” I whisper. “And why do you have the acquisition permit for the gardens?”
He doesn’t answer either question. Gaze inscrutable, he faces me instead, his body blocking the howling wind, his umbrella protecting me from the harsh elements.
His smoldering eyes drift to the emerald pendant around my neck.
Slowly, he scrapes one finger down my cheek, lighting tiny fires on my skin.
I shiver.
“I protect what’s mine,” he murmurs, unbuttoning his coat.
Gently, he places it over my shoulders, wrapping me in its warmth.
A sense of déjà vu falls over me, but I can’t place it.
He holds my gaze for a few heavy beats, his throat rippling, like he wants to tell me something, to bare his soul and reveal his secrets.
But a rough exhale escapes his lips instead.
Wordlessly, Elias lifts the dessert and blows out the candle.
My breath hitches. Something sharp and guilty twists in my chest.
This was supposed to be Kian’s flame, not his.
But then, it also feels…right.
He curls my hand around the umbrella handle.
“A blizzard is heading our way,” he rasps. “Don’t stay out too long. You’ll get sick.”
Before I can answer, the Shadow King ducks out from under the umbrella into the wind-whipped snow, letting it coat his hair and clothes while I stand there dry and wrapped in his coat.
A hollow ache flares behind my sternum as I watch his lonely silhouette disappear into the mist.