Chapter 44
44
SAMANTHA
W hen I wake, the sun is streaming through the bedroom windows. I’m alone in the massive bed; Braiden’s pillow is chilled when I touch it. I stretch beneath the duvet, discovering muscles I never knew I possessed.
I want to know how Braiden understands me so completely. He reads my body better than I can myself; he knows what I need and how much I can take and when I’m ready to break, like he’s been studying me his entire life.
But it’s not just my body. It’s my mind. He understands the darkness I’ve lived in. His rules heal me. They free me. We’ve wasted so much time—five weeks that I spent in Goldenrod Cottage, when I could have been with the man I love.
Last night at the freeport was madness. The waiter. The gun. How close I came to dying.
Braiden killed a man for me.
I should shower. I should get dressed. I should check in with the freeport, see what messages Trap has sent, figure out the legal repercussions of everything that happened in that tent last night.
But I’m not ready to be a calm and calculating lawyer, not yet.
I raid Braiden’s closet. I’m surprised to find all my clothes still hanging there; he didn’t pack them up while I lived at the freeport.
I could choose anything I own, but I opt for Braiden’s clothes instead. I pull on a pair of forest green sweatpants, cinching them tight over my hips and folding up cuffs at my ankles. There’s a burgundy hoodie on a shelf; I roll up the sleeves enough not to feel totally lost.
The dining room is empty downstairs—no newspapers on the table, no samovar on the credenza. I pad into the kitchen, and Braiden is standing behind the center island.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Good afternoon.”
I peer around him, at the clock on the stove. He’s right. It’s 1:17 in the afternoon. “Where is everyone?” I ask.
“It’s Sunday. Fairfax’s day off. I asked Grace to take Aiofe to her cottage for a sleepover.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I want to feed you breakfast. Or lunch. Whatever. And then I want to lay you down on the dining room table and bury my face between your thighs.”
I blush. But I don’t even consider telling him no. “What’s for breakfast?”
He points to a bowl and a carton of eggs. “I make a decent omelet.”
“I seem to recall that.”
I watch him crack the eggs. Whisk them. Add salt and pepper and a healthy splash of milk. He’s generous with butter in the pan, and he sprinkles plenty of cheese over the eggs before he folds them.
While he divides the omelet onto two plates, I pour myself a cup of coffee.
“Do you want tea?” I ask.
“If I have any more, I’ll be swimming.”
“How long ago did you wake up?” I ask, following him into the dining room.
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t move.
He stands in front of me like he’s been turned to stone, and finally I have to step around him.
“Braiden?” I ask, but then I see what stopped him.
It’s a woman. She’s shorter than I am by six or seven inches. Plump, like she doesn’t spend a lot of time working out, and pale, like she stays inside a lot. Her hair is a fiery red, framing her face in tight curls. She’s got enormous grass-green eyes. She’s wearing a floor length white dress, cut high across her throat, like a wedding gown for a nun. The effect is heightened by the large gold cross that hangs around her neck.
“Braiden?” I say again.
But he doesn’t respond to me. Instead, he stares at the stranger. “Birte,” he finally says. “You’re not supposed to be downstairs.”
“Downstairs,” she says in an ethereal voice, like an angel who’s just learned a new word. “Birte dares. Who cares?”
“Braiden?” I say his name a third time. “Who is this?”
He looks at me. Looks at the other woman. Looks at the omelet on his plate, at the melted cheese that’s cooling into a waxy lump.
Frightened now, I repeat my question. “Who is this?”
The woman in white tilts her head to one side. She smiles a pretty smile at Braiden. In the same angel voice she used before, she asks, “Who is this? Who is this? Who is this?”
Braiden mutters something in Irish, a curse I’m certain, but I don’t understand the words. The other woman must, though, because her forehead creases into a frown. She clutches her necklace with one hand and makes the sign of the cross with the other.
One last time, I say my husband’s name. “Braiden? What is going on here?”
He clears his throat. “Samantha Kelly,” he says, with the same formality he used months ago, introducing me to Fairfax and Aiofe, to the other people living in this house. “This is Birte Antóinín Mason. My wife.”