Chapter 52 | Anna #2
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy to give them reminders if they step out of line.”
Next, we met the perimeter guards and the guards on the outbuildings. At first, they were amused with my prodding questions, then quickly realized who was in charge.
As we walked away, I said, “I want a copy of your list of names.”
“That’s classified,” he said, but he was smiling when he said it.
“I’m sure you can figure out how to give me clearance.” I let my gaze linger long enough to be trouble.
He lifted a brow. “Careful. You keep asking like that and I’m going to start breaking rules.”
“Good.” I patted his arm like I’d won. “Start with the names.”
But then all my humor died when I saw the manor. Two armed men on either side of the front door. Cameras I never asked for.
My steps faltered.
It was the same, but not.
My home, but not.
I stared at it, trying to convince myself this was fine. That this was normal.
“Remember what I told you,” he said quietly. “You want anything changed you tell me. No questions asked.”
Like the stables. He hadn’t even tried to derail me.
I nodded.
“Come on,” he said, taking my hand. “You can interrogate the guards.”
I huffed a laugh. But yes. I was absolutely going to interrogate the guards.
George and Arthur survived my questions with their dignity mostly intact, and then we stepped inside.
I paused in the foyer and looked around. The house itself hadn’t changed. That made it feel like a lie.
Piers was the first person I saw. He stood in the foyer as if he’d known the moment I crossed the gate. As if he’d been waiting for me to appear.
He took my hand in both of his—a surprising gesture from the stoic butler.
“Welcome home, my lady,” he said.
Normally, I would have corrected him. This time, I didn’t. I smiled. “Thanks, Piers.”
“My lady,” Ludwig repeated, testing it like a new weapon. “Should I bow? Kiss the ring? Call you Your Grace and pretend I’ve been trained?”
“Don’t,” Kincade said flatly. “You’ll sprain something.”
Piers stiffened and looked down his nose at him. “She is, yes. She inherited the title from Lord Edward when he passed. Baroness.”
I tried not to groan.
“Did she?” Ludwig sounded delighted. “You never said you were nobility.”
“I am not,” I said flatly.
“You are,” Piers countered, unbothered.
“Okay, so… do we get promoted? Because I feel like I should get promoted,” Ludwig said.
“You’re not getting promoted,” I said.
“That’s sad, my lady.” Ludwig sounded far too amused.
“You’ll call me Anna or I’ll punch you,” I said.
Kincade’s mouth ticked. Ulrich snickered.
Footsteps on the stairs caught my attention.
Ophelia came first, running. Grace right behind her—and behind Grace…
My mother.
Ophelia collided with me, her blonde hair bouncing behind her as she grabbed me in a bear hug.
“You’re home!”
Behind me, Ludwig said, “Oh, hey.”
Ophelia didn’t even flinch. Didn’t loosen her grip. Like Ludwig had spoken into a void.
“Ophelia,” I choked, half laughing. “Air.”
“No,” she said. “You don’t get air until I’ve confirmed you’re real.”
Her arms tightened once more, and then—finally—she pulled back, eyes shining, face tight with emotion like she refused to cry in front of an audience.
“I’m real. I promise.”
Grace stepped in next. Not fast. Not dramatic. Inevitable. She grabbed my hands in both of hers and looked at me like she was counting every bruise that wasn’t there.
“We were worried sick,” she said.
“I know. I’m sorry about that.” Like I had any control over it.
Her eyes were watering, and I knew she was trying not to cry.
“Now that I’m home,” I said, breezily, “I need a home cooked meal because these guys can’t cook.” I thumbed over my shoulder.
“Hey!” Ludwig said, affronted. “I kept you fed.”
“Whatever you want,” she said. “I’ll make it.”
“I’ll give you a list,” I said with a smile.
And then Grace stepped aside and there was my mother.
We looked at each other for a long moment.
Then she reached for my hand, squeezed it once. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me, too,” I said, and meant it.
I made introductions and instantly noticed Ludwig and Ophelia sizing each other up. That was going to be… interesting. Ulrich stayed quiet and assessing, like he was cataloguing exits even in a reunion.
And by then, I was… peopled out. Exhaustion hit hard, fast, like my body had been waiting for the front door to close before it admitted how drained I was.
He sensed it. Whether he read it on my face or in my head, I didn’t know.
Kincade’s hand settled at the small of my back.
“Ulrich, grab the bags,” he said, and steered me toward the stairs.
“On it,” Ulrich said.
“But—” I started.
“No arguments,” Kincade said. “That’s enough for today.”
He guided me up the stairs like we’d done it a thousand times before. Like this wasn’t my first time walking back into a house that had been taken from me.
The hallway smelled the same. Wax and old wood and whatever lemon-clean thing Piers swore by. Familiar in a way that made my throat tighten.
But instead of going to the bedroom, I veered toward the library.
The scene of the crime.
I halted in the doorway. Same desk. Same executive chair. Same bookshelves lining the walls. Morning light filtered through the curtains in a cheerful, sunny way that didn’t know what had happened here four months ago.
He was right behind me, close enough that his warmth washed over me. Waiting for me to decide what to do next.
My gaze landed on the desk. I’d stood there when the Watcher came. When he grabbed me. When I stabbed him with the letter opener.
It was still there on the desk. Like someone couldn’t bring themselves to put it away where it belonged.
I stood there, trying to picture what happened after I was taken. Not that it mattered. It didn’t.
This was the room where we’d had private conversations. Where we’d talked about nothing important. Where we’d shared an evening glass of whiskey.
I was hesitant to move forward.
His hand landed on my elbow. He guided me inside and paused at the liquor cart. The same cart with its crystal glasses and decanters catching the light.
He poured two drinks and handed one to me.
We stood there in the silence. Him holding his glass. Me holding mine. For a long moment, I didn’t know if I wanted to accept it. It felt bold, drinking whiskey on a bright morning.
Then he said, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
I grinned—and drank.
And when the glass was empty, he took it from my hand like it was the only thing he could do. And it was.
He guided me back down the hall, hand at the small of my back—steady and sure.
The hallway felt longer than I remembered. Or I was that tired.
The bedroom door at the end of the hall was closed. He opened it and let me go first.
I stepped inside—and stopped.
Same bed. Same windows. Same view of the gardens. Like I’d never left. Like the last four months had been a fever dream.
Except for the cameras outside. Those were new.
The door clicked shut behind me. Locked.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat on the edge of the bed aware of how heavy my limbs were.
He knelt in front of me and started unlacing my boots.
“I can do that,” I said.
“I know.” He pulled the first boot off. Then the second.
Then he stood and helped me out of my coat. The sweater underneath. Gentle. Patient. Like I was breakable.
I wasn’t. But I let him while still arguing, because apparently that was my brand.
“I’m not helpless.”
“Quit fighting me.”
When I was down to a tank top and cargo pants, he pulled back the covers.
“In.”
“But I still have on pants.”
“Then take them off.”
“Do you enjoy giving me orders?” I asked, but I was already moving.
“Yes.”
“Not surprised.”
I slid under the duvet—my duvet, in my bed, in my room—and after the rustle of fabric, he followed. He pulled me against him. I fit there. Against his chest, his warmth. Under his chin. Like the space had been carved out specifically for me.
His hand moved through my hair in slow strokes. Rhythmic. Grounding.
I closed my eyes. Breathed in his scent. Felt his heartbeat under my palm.
“I liked when it was just us,” I said, thinking of the cabin, Istanbul. Back when the world hadn’t followed us into every room.
“It’s just us now,” he said.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Because we both knew I’d never be alone again. Not with cameras on the outside and men at the gates and a wall of muscle that moved when I moved.
He didn’t argue. He held me like he was making a promise without words.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“For bringing me home.”
He didn’t answer. He kissed my forehead and tightened his arms around me.
And in my own bed, in my own house, with his arms around me, I let sleep take me.