Chapter 44
FORTY-FOUR
SHAE
“ Y ou can’t outsource this decision, bestie. I’m sorry,” Yennifer says, true remorse coating her voice. Even though I know what she’s saying is right, it doesn’t take the sting out of her words.
“I-I’m not trying to?—”
“Yes, you are. And I understand you, babe. It’s okay. But this is your life, your kids’ lives. You’re the decision-maker, and you can’t crowdsource your future.”
I look up at the sky, closing my eyes as a slight breeze comes through the trees.
This part of Storm’s garden feels like a fever dream.
I followed the cobblestone path under an ivy-laden arch and stepped into a different world—one where the bushes are covered with roses and all kinds of flowers I can’t name, and vines crawl up the sides of the tucked-away buildings.
It’s overgrown, as if it weren’t thought about beyond keeping the pathway clear, but I can tell someone who loved this space placed every flower with care.
“Give yourself a deadline,” Yennifer says through my AirPods. “You’re miserable right now, stressed beyond belief, and if you ever want to not feel that way, you need to choose.”
I swallow and bring my head level, starting my walk again.
Again, she’s right. It’s been weeks since Storm drew the line in the sand, and I’ve been avoiding him as much as is humanly possible.
Over the last several days, I’ve vacillated between complete despair and longing for him, and self-righteous indignation over his actions and his attitude toward them.
My mind has been a hellscape, and with most of the office closed due to Zane’s death, I’ve had ample time to wallow in my thoughts.
“Today,” I say, turning a bend. A tall, industrial-looking building appears a few feet ahead of me, previously hidden by the trees on my walk. I don’t know if it’s the way the sun hits the glass walls or what, but something calls me to go inside.
“Today?” Yenn asks, and I clear my throat, straightening but not moving closer.
Not yet.
“I’ll decide today. By sundown,” I say. It’s six p.m., and there are a few hours until nightfall.
Yennifer is silent over the line, but I don’t mind her quiet. Finally, she says, “I love you, Shae. You’ve got this, and I’m behind you, whatever you decide.”
Tears welling in my eyes, I smile, even though she can’t see me.
“Ditto, babe,” I reply.
After we hang up, I stuff the earbuds in my pocket. I stand still to study the building, and I have no clue why, but a wave of calm washes over me. Maybe that’s why it’s calling to me.
Lord knows I need a moment of peace.
I’m surprised and grateful that the sliding doors open easily when I push on the frame.
Dust and thick tan tarps cover the small amount of furniture scattered around the first floor.
A metal chimney chute goes from what looks like a large stone oven, and the inside is so black that it feels like an open portal to Hell.
I lift one of the tarps to find glass vases tipped on their sides. The different colors cause a kaleidoscope to reflect on the wall across from the open barn-style door.
The way the art pieces scatter across the worktable, I know not to touch them. It’s like they’re a moment in time—a frozen scene in the Sandoval household that shouldn’t be disturbed, or it’ll be lost forever.
I gently replace the covering.
“You can look at them.”
I jump about a foot in the air, spinning around with a hand on my chest. It only takes me a second to realize it’s Storm’s voice, but my heart races anyway.
“You scared me!” I say, pointing out the obvious. I look up to him as he stands on the bottom stairs, his hands in his pockets.
His smile comes slowly. It’s a sad expression.
I look around, taking in the shelves with glasswork on the opposite wall and the paintings hung throughout the space.
In front of a tall window, a rectangular sheet of colored mosaic glass hangs from two metal wires that go all the way to the ceiling a story above.
Taking a step closer, I hold my breath as I analyze the art.
The piece has to be about eleven feet long, and what I identify as a raging river made of glass flows down the length of the piece.
Surrounding the shore, flames encompass the river.
The river looks powerful; the fire seems powerful.
A battle of two beautifully destructive forces.
“You made this?” I ask Storm when I feel him move behind me. With the light casting through the glass, it looks otherworldly.
“Yes, I made it years ago,” he says, and I look around the space.
“This studio doesn’t seem very used,” I reply, and he chuckles a bit.
“I didn’t make it here. Just had them display it here.”
“Why?” I ask, bewildered. “Why not have it hang inside where it can be enjoyed?” I turn to face him fully, and the look he gives me is heartbreaking, tender.
“It was too hard to look at every day,” he replies.
“Why?” I whisper, and he runs his index finger down my cheek. I keep my eyes open.
“It’s because it’s us, Sweetness,” he says back just as softly. I feel my expression shift, and he turns me around with a hand on each of my shoulders.
“See the river running down? It’s how I see you: formidable, unstoppable, on your path to your destiny.” I look hard at the glass, seeing the vision as he describes it.
“And the flames?” I ask after I clear my throat. His hands remain on my shoulders, and I want to curl into him like a cat.
“An equally powerful element, an acknowledgement that they can get close to each other, but if they cross the line, they’ll destroy the other.”
There’s so much sadness in his words, I want to cry.
“So, if I’m the river, you’re the fire?” I ask, and instead of replying, he places a kiss on the top of my head.
And I let him.
I should hate him, hate who he’s become, but standing here with his powerful frame behind me, it feels impossible.
I simply can’t.
And what does that say about me? That a man who hurt me so deeply, so profoundly, would still have a place in my heart?
How can I still have feelings for a man I watched murder someone without remorse, who makes commands and expects everyone to follow?
Now, with time separating me from that horrible night, I can see why Storm took Bakari’s life.
He felt he had to. I was under Bakari and Darren’s protection, and yet they both failed me terribly.
How could Storm trust them with anything?
Darren’s betrayal was apparent, but Bakari’s betrayal of his duties through negligence cost me greatly, too.
Storm sees things in black and white, justice and injustice. And sometimes, he’s the judge, jury, and executioner…and sometimes, our world is safer when he spills blood.
Storm Sandoval is a killer—the exact type of man my father would loathe me being with, the type of man who I should run far away from.
So, what does it say about me that I can’t stop loving him, even if I tried?
I turn to face him again, and I accept the answer. I should hate him, but I see his soul.
And he doesn’t hide the fact that his heart beats for me, just like mine beats for him.
Can that be enough to move forward? Should it be enough?
“Storm—”
“Shae,” he says, stopping my words. “Can I show you something?”
I nod, giving him my hand.
He leads me across the studio to a narrow flight of stairs leading to a small loft.
When we reach the landing, a half-finished painting sits on an easel.
There’s a smock flung over a stool, and dried paint brushes line a small table next to the piece.
The floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the glass art below extend to this area, allowing more light to filter in over the tops of the trees outside.
It’s even dustier up here, but brighter. I can see why someone would want to paint in this spot.
“Is this your work, too?” I ask, leaning close to the canvas to take in the intricate details.
“No, I’m not a painter. My mom was,” he says, and I straighten.
“Oh,” I say softly, examining the side of his face as he looks over the painting. There’s a gentle smile on his face, as if he were remembering it being created, maybe during a happier time.
“It’s a stunning piece,” I whisper, something telling me the reverence of the moment calls for it.
He keeps looking at the art, not at me, but I’m okay with that.
“I couldn’t take it down,” he says. “I don’t know what to do with it, I just know I can’t move it from this easel.”
More silence falls between us, but nothing about it feels awkward. Just…heavy.
“I should be further along with this,” he says.
“This?” I ask, my fingers aching to touch him.
“Grieving,” he replies. “I mean, it’s been eight years, but it still feels like yesterday. I can still hear the explosion; I can still smell their?—”
He looks down, finally tearing his eyes away from the art his mother never finished.
“I’m sorry, Storm,” I say after holding the words. “I’m so sorry for all you went through.”
Storm freezes, as if the words are a threat, but then he relaxes, smiling at me as if he weren’t just on an emotional cliff.
“Thanks, Sweetness,” he says. “But I knew that already.”
He grabs my hands, and my heart thuds hard against my breastbone.
“Well, I just wanted you to know. You’ve gone through so much trauma when you lost them, and losing them the way you did was…
” I blow out a breath, still shaken by what he described all those weeks ago.
“You’re grieving, and I think it’s okay you’re still grieving.
There isn’t a time limit on this sort of thing. ”
Storm grins, and I find myself smiling back at him.
This. This is why it’s so hard to deny him—because we’re just standing here, holding hands, smiling at each other, and something in my spirit settles.
Storm feels like home.
“Storm, we need to talk.”
The smile falls off his face.
“I mean?—”
“No, it’s…you’re right, Sweetness,” he says, emotions flashing across his face so quickly I can’t register all of them.
“Right,” I say, suddenly very nervous. Where do I even start?