Chapter 51 | Kincade
The drive back to the villa was quiet. She shut herself down and stared out the window the entire way. We all understood something profound had happened between her and her mother on that bench, and none of us were going to break the moment.
She didn’t look fragile, though. She was holding herself together with willpower and stubbornness and resolve. Like she’d stopped fighting reality long enough to see it clearly. Like she’d made a decision about what came next.
And once Anna Walker decided, the world usually had two choices—adapt or get crushed.
It was late afternoon when we arrived. She went in first and disappeared into the villa without looking back. The others scattered on instinct. Ludwig to the perimeter, Ulrich to the inside.
I found her where I knew she’d go.
The courtyard doors were flung open. She stood near the fountain with her back to me, hands loose at her sides, dark hair spilling down her back. She still wore her coat. Shoulders tight. Spine rigid.
I knew what she was doing—replaying every word.
I started to open the bond, then didn’t. I let her keep her moment.
I should have backed away. Left her alone. But I’d watched her out there by the river. How hard she’d worked not to fall apart. And I wasn’t going to make her do that part alone.
I stepped into the courtyard, letting my boots scuff the stone on purpose so she’d hear me coming.
She didn’t turn.
“Rain is in the air,” she said. “Do you feel it?”
“Yes.”
The air was cold and damp.
I stopped a few feet behind her. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to crowd. Wondering if she meant to stand out here until she froze.
“Do you want to be alone?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. I started to turn, then, “No. I don’t know.”
“I can go.”
“No,” she said, sharp. She turned her head, looked at me. “Stay.”
I didn’t move closer. I waited. She looked away.
Her shoulders rose on an inhale that wasn’t steady. She exhaled slowly.
“She remembered me,” she said, her voice quiet. “I think… she’s reclaimed pieces of herself.”
That mattered. Not for me—for her. Because if Natasha could remember Anna, then Anna wasn’t reaching for a phantom anymore. She had something solid to hold on to.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“Grace reads her Psalms,” she said. “She sits with her, when her mind starts to slip. And sometimes she doesn’t remember the words, but she remembers how it feels.”
She paused and drew in a shaky breath.
Grace had raised Anna when no one else could. She’d held the line through scraped knees and nightmares and thirteen years of questions with no answers. If anyone could sit with a broken mind without flinching, it was her.
“And Grace… she chose that. She didn’t have to, but she chose it. And I—I’m so grateful for that. For her. For helping. Because I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”
“But you do now.”
The cold breeze slipped through the courtyard bringing with it the first hint of rain.
“Now,” she said on a huff. “It was damn near too late. I was so busy hunting relics and trying to stop the end of the world, I didn’t stop long enough to see what she needed. Grace did.”
She wasn’t talking about thirteen-year-old Anna. She was talking about the months she’d spent running on purpose—saving everyone—while the people at home carried the weight.
“You didn’t do that because you didn’t care,” I said. “You did it because if you stopped, the world would end.”
Her breath left in a rough burst like she wanted to argue, anyway.
“But you’re here now,” I added, firm enough to hold. “And you see it now. That’s the difference.” I let the wind and the first mist of rain fill the space between us. “So don’t punish yourself for choosing the fight when there wasn’t another choice.”
I didn’t touch her—didn’t crowd her—but I shifted a fraction closer, so she’d feel the option of leaning without having to ask.
She turned enough to angle herself toward me, but there was still tension in her shoulders.
“I told her I killed him,” she whispered. “She was glad.”
She didn’t have to say Vormund. I knew.
“She said something else,” she said. “That I chose someone who won’t let them finish the job.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I won’t.” Simple truth. No qualification needed.
“And…” She cut me a glance, like she was testing the edge of a blade. Careful. Deliberate. Waiting for the cut. “That you love me.”
I didn’t answer. There was nothing to deny. Her mother had seen it. She knew it. Now she was making me say it. She was walking the line like a dare—like she always did, with everyone—and she wasn’t going to flinch first.
She looked away again, back to the fountain, like it had the answer she was waiting for. It didn’t. I did.
“You don’t have to say—”
“I do,” I cut in.
She went still.
I closed the distance and caught her face in my hands, thumbs steady on her chin. Her eyes were shiny and dark. Waiting. Vulnerable. Trying not to show it.
“You impossible, beautiful thing,” I said, low. “I loved you the second you pepper-sprayed me.”
My eyes had burned for an hour. My pride for longer. But I’d gotten over both. She’d said sorry like it mattered, then ran like it didn’t and I’d never been able to decide which part I respected more. All I knew was she’d thrown down a challenge, and I’d decided to take it.
And before she could give me a smart-ass reply, I kissed her—quick, contained. Then I felt her give, heard the small sound she tried to contain, and I went back in, slower, heavier.
When I pulled back, she didn’t step away. She leaned into me instead, forehead brushing my chest, and whispered, “No backsies.”
“Good,” I said. “Because you’re stuck with me.”
She laughed softly. Then, “Take me home. I’m ready.”
“We can leave at first light.”
“We should tell the others,” she said. “They’ll need time to prepare.”
“They’re already prepared. They knew before you did.”
“They knew I’d tell them to come?” There was a smile in her voice.
“They were taking bets on how long it would take.”
Ludwig lost. He’d bet another week.
I held her there as the first drops of rain began to fall, and for once I didn’t move us out of it.