Chapter 42
Forty-Two
River, a month later
The first thing I unpack is a mixing bowl.
Not clothes.
Not books.
Not the expensive industrial mixer Thorn insisted on buying because he needs a constant supply of daisy-shaped sugar cookies.
Just a mixing bowl.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that home isn’t where your stuff is.
It’s where your stomach is.
Grinning, I move through the penthouse, through the home Thorn and I are building. It’s cozy and beautiful and warm and doesn’t have a chair wedged beneath the front door, and most importantly, it’s ours.
Of course, it’ll be a bit more ours once I’m fully unpacked.
Because, dear God, cardboard boxes cover nearly every available surface—my things from my apartment that have been in storage while Thorn healed, the new books and furniture and shelves and cozy, fluffy blankets and a hundred other things Thorn insisted I needed.
The movies and spices and kitchen items I insisted he needed.
All in all, it’s a disaster.
Thorn emerges from the elevator carrying yet another box.
“Books,” he says. “You have so many damned books.”
I smile at him. “We have so many damned books, honey.”
His expression goes blank. Then he grins. “Yeah, I guess we do.”
Grinning back—because he’s as addicted to my romantasy books as I am—I open the pantry and reach for the container of flour.
The movement pulls slightly at my back and I reach a hand behind me, rubbing at the ache that’s been forming over the last few hours.
Maybe I do have too many books. Or kitchen tools.
Blasphemy.
But the sight makes Thorn frown—of course it does.
Because he notices everything.
He sets the box down and comes over to me, rubbing at my back. “You should take a break, little hen.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m making you cookies.”
“You’ve been unpacking for six hours, and you’re tired.” He scowls. “No cookies.”
“You love my cookies.”
“I do. But not when you’re tired.”
“Honey—”
“I love when you call me that, little hen. But no dice. You need to rest.”
“I…” I sigh.
“What?”
“I want our house to be a home.”
His eyes soften. Then he smiles, taps my nose. “Stubborn thing, aren’t you?”
Mine narrow in return. “Pot meet kettle.”
“Meow?” Violet jumps up on the counter directly between us, carrying one of my socks.
A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Fine,” he mutters, picking up the books and carrying them out of the kitchen. “Cookies,” he calls. “Then you’ll rest.”
“Deal,” I call back and lift on tiptoe, intending to grab my recipe book from the shelf next to the fridge.
Instead, my fingers brush across—
“What?” I whisper, frowning as I knock a small envelope to the floor.
It’s old and yellowed, the edges worn.
I freeze, and maybe I shouldn’t open it, shouldn’t be nosy…but a voice in my head is screaming at me that this is important.
Really freaking important.
So, I carefully peel back the flap.
Then suck in a breath at the photo.
It’s Thorn and…Claudette—I know that in an instant. Her eyes are full of shadows but she’s smiling, her head resting on Thorn’s shoulder, her arm around his middle.
Trusting him.
God, they both look so young.
And they were both burdened with far too much.
And yet, they found a slice of home in each other.
“Pascal recovered that for me,” he says quietly and I jerk, not having heard him come back. “I’d deleted it from my phone, knew it was dumb to even risk taking it. But, God, that night, for just a few hours we were just two dumb teenagers in love, wanting to document the moment.”
He carefully takes the picture from me, traces a finger over her face.
“She was beautiful,” I murmur.
“She was, but most of her beauty came from who she was inside.”
“Will you tell me more about her?”
His eyes drift to mine, but he doesn’t speak for a long moment.
I know it’s because of the pain inside him, because of the loss of this woman—the woman whose choices shaped so much of what came after.
The woman who battled monsters.
The woman who never got the future she deserved.
Thorn touches my cheek, and I don’t realize I’m crying until he wipes away the tears. Then his lips twitch. “She’d be proud of you for the stunt with the Lyons.”
“Yeah?”
“She was a fighter, fierce in every sense of the word, but she was more than that too. God, she could make me laugh.” A sigh. “But she could also make me mad. She refused to give in, even when it would make things easier, and she refused to give up on me, even when I told her I couldn’t help.”
“Because she saw the real you deep inside.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes and he’s quiet for a few seconds before he nods. “Yeah, little hen. I think you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.”
A chuckle. “Who’s fierce now?”
I grin and lean closer, cuddling against him, grounding him and me in the present, even with the past all around us. “Tell me more about her.”
He does.
He tells me how she protected the kids who were taken with her.
He tells me about that wicked sense of humor.
He tells me how she eventually trusted him and what it meant to him.
He tells me about their plans to leave it all behind and the fear he felt when it all went wrong.
He tells me how it felt to lose her.
And eventually, I wipe his tears away.
Then I look around the apartment.
At my books on the table and his laptop on the counter.
At the boxes stacked all around and his jackets hanging next to mine on the hooks.
At my baking supplies in the kitchen and his coffee mug in the sink.
At Violet, asleep in a patch of sunlight atop the blanket for her we picked out together.
There are no shadows waiting in the corners.
No ex-husband.
No Lyons.
No secrets.
Just us.
Just…home.
“So,” I say gently, “where should she go?”
His eyes come to mine, and then he smiles. “God, I love you, little hen.” He kisses me, long and sweet, then carefully takes the photograph and uses a magnet to secure it to the fridge. “The first of many photos of our lives,” he says—or rather, promises, running his finger lightly along the edge.
It’s front and center.
It’s out in the open.
It’s…perfect.
Because once upon a time, Thorn hid everything connected to his past.
Now he’s living in the light.
And Claudette’s smile is brilliant in the late afternoon sunshine, as though she approves.
Thorn exhales, slides his arm around my waist, and I lean into him automatically. For several quiet minutes neither of us says anything. Then, as though we’re one being, one heart, one soul, we break apart.
I go back to the cookies.
He picks up the box.
We keep building our home.
And, for the first time in a very long time, for the first time in maybe ever, neither of us is looking over our shoulders.
The past has lost its hold on us.
Because we’re finally looking forward.