Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
DALLEN
Four months later, Ireland
The first thing I notice when the car turns through the gates is how wrong Stephen was.
Cottage.
Stephen Moretti’s “cottage” rises out of the Irish countryside like something carved from legend—gray stone walls, tall, mullioned windows catching the pale afternoon light, ivy climbing confidently toward the roofline as if it has every intention of claiming the place.
Beyond it, the Atlantic stretches vast and merciless, waves crashing against rock in a rhythm that feels both violent and cleansing.
It’s beautiful.
It’s imposing.
It’s precisely the kind of place a man like Stephen would live.
But cottage? No, it most certainly isn’t that.
My pulse hums as the driver brings the car to a stop. I sit there for longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. I have replayed this arrival in my head a hundred times over the past months—what I would say, how I would stand, whether I would break the moment I saw him.
I am not the same woman who left New York. Not the woman who lay on the carpet of her office, believing she was about to die. But I’m not totally broken either. I’ve worked hard to repair what I could from that night, and seeing Stephen is my final step to that healing.
I quickly swipe my card and pay the fare, opening the door before I can change my mind.
The cold air hits me—stealing my breath for a moment.
I can taste the salt on my lips. It fills my lungs, a sensation that feels almost healing.
For so long, everything has smelled like antiseptic, city trash, and fear lodged somewhere deep in my memory.
This smells like freedom, security, and possibility.
A new start.
The front door opens before I reach it. Stephen steps out and pauses on the threshold. His gaze devours me. Perhaps a good sign that he hasn’t moved on. That I may still ignite something in his heart and mind. But he also looks…different.
Not softer. He will never be soft. But less coiled. His shoulders aren’t braced for impact, his jaw isn’t set quite so tight. The wildness in him hasn’t disappeared—it stirs there beneath the surface—but it’s quieter here, like the land itself is absorbing some of it.
We stand there for a moment, looking at each other.
It’s been months. Thirteen weeks to be exact, but who’s counting?
You were counting, Dallen.
So many weeks of therapy. Weeks of slow, careful conversations with a woman who tells me that trauma does not make me weak.
That I shouldn’t carry shame as it isn’t mine to bear.
That no matter what I did, Elio Romero would have attempted what he did to me that night, that it was his choice and his choice alone.
That no one blames me, isn’t judging me, no matter how much I think they are.
But these past three weeks have been the hardest. Returning to the office three days a week and forcing myself to walk the corridor where it happened. Working at my desk and remembering how everything unfolded.
I survived, and most of that survival lies at this beautiful man’s feet. How I missed him, so much so that some nights I physically hurt.
“You came,” he says finally. His voice is steady, but there is something beneath it. Something fragile that I’ve never heard before.
“I did.”
He takes a step toward me and then stops. Is he unsure of himself, or of me? I can’t help but think it’s the latter.
“Can I hug you?” he asks.
The question alone nearly undoes me. Once upon a time, he would have taken me into his arms, claimed the space, claimed me. The man standing before me now waits for permission.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He approaches slowly, arms sliding around me with careful restraint. He doesn’t pull me tight. Doesn’t crush me against him. He lets me choose the pressure.
I close the space myself, press my cheek against his chest, and relish the feel of his arms around me again.
The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear unties something inside me and sends it floating away.
Perhaps I also hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until this moment.
“I missed you,” he murmurs into my hair, kissing my temple, his warm breath against my ear making me shiver.
“I know.” We stand like that for a long time, the wind tugging at us, the sea roaring in the distance, and I realize I’m trembling, not from fear, but from feeling.
Safe…
He draws back enough to look at me. His gaze traces my face carefully, cataloging each of my features. The bruises are long gone, the cuts have healed, the memory too, when I fight hard enough to push it down where it can’t control me.
I pray that too dissipates in time.
“You look stronger,” he says. “Beautiful as ever.”
“I am stronger.” It surprises me how easily that truth comes, but it’s true.
“Come, we’ll sit out the front. There’s a beautiful view of the sea that you’ll love.”
I follow, knowing I’m already in love with Ireland, this house…him.
We move around to the terrace that overlooks the cliffs.
The stone beneath our feet is cool. The horizon stretches so far it feels like the world could drop away, and it wouldn’t matter.
New York sits somewhere over that ocean, and for the first time in my life, I wouldn’t care if I never saw it again.
We sit side by side. Not touching, just being at first. “I’ve been in therapy,” I tell him. “It’s helped me a lot.”
He nods. “Your father mentioned it in his last email.” He pauses. “I’m glad it’s helped. I wanted to be there for you, but I know you needed me to leave. I want you to know that I understand that choice.”
“I didn’t want to be defined by that night,” I continue, my eyes fixed on the waves.
“I didn’t want to flinch every time someone raised their voice.
I didn’t want to hate myself for not being stronger.
I didn’t want to resent you for not listening to me like Elio wouldn’t.
” My throat tightens, and I swallow the lump that’s lodged there.
“I still have nightmares. Some nights are worse than others. But they’re becoming less frequent.
I’m back at work three days a week. I walk past that spot on the floor, and I don’t see only what happened there.
I see that I’m still here and he isn’t. I see you, saving me, and it’s a comfort I didn’t know I needed. ”
His hand shifts, hovering near mine, but he doesn’t reach out. I look at his tattooed hand, so large and strong, heavy with ink, and yet, he’s so careful with me. Never punishing, never cruel.
He’s the kindest man I know.
“I would kill again to save you,” he says quietly.
The bluntness of his words doesn’t shock me. Not anymore. There was a time those words would have sent ice through my veins. Now they land differently. He isn’t bragging. He isn’t threatening. He is stating a fact.
He would protect his own—those he loved.
“I know,” I say. He looks at me then, searching my features, for what I do not know. A lie? Fear? Hesitation?
“I don’t admit that lightly,” he continues.
“I nearly lost myself that night. When I saw him on top of you…” His jaw tightens.
“There was a part of me that didn’t want to stop.
Even after he ceased moving. I wanted to rip his organs from his body.
I wanted to throw his worthless carcass from the window and watch it land on the pavement below. I wanted to see his whole family dead.”
I remember that look in his eyes. Not just fury. Something darker. Older. “But you did stop,” I say gently.
“Barely.”
We fall into silence, the wind carrying away the weight of his words. “I’ve thought about what you did,” I admit. “About what it means that you would do that for me.”
“And?”
“And I realize something.” I draw in a slow breath. “That I’m happy that you killed Elio. I know now that, should I ever be in the situation you were in that night, I too would act the same. I would do anything to protect those I love, no matter the cost. I can’t judge you for that.”
I turn to face him and clasp his hand. “What happened to me wasn’t because of your temper, your family, or your past. It was Elio’s choice.
His family is seeking revenge on a person who had nothing to do with Matteo Romero's death. They are the cruel ones in all of this. They are the ones who should carry the shame of such actions.”
Relief crosses Stephen’s face.
“I don’t romanticize what you are,” I continue. “I don’t pretend your family hasn’t done terrible things. I’m still a lawyer. I still believe in law and order, and I know what your family has done, by your own admission.”
“I know.”
“But I also know,” I continue. “That the world isn’t as simple as I was raised to believe.
And that night… You didn’t hurt me. You saved me.
” The words settle between us. “I’m not fully healed,” I admit.
“Some days I still feel like I’m walking around in someone else’s skin.
But I didn’t come here because I’m fragile. I came because I chose to.”
His fingers tighten around mine. “Why?” he asks softly.
Because that’s the question. Why would I choose this man, with his shadows and his history and the danger that clings to his name? “I was scared that loving you meant betraying everything I am,” I say. “That it meant becoming someone I don’t recognize, don’t trust, or respect.”
“And now?”
“Now I realize loving you doesn’t erase my values. It doesn’t make me complicit in your past. It means I see you as more than the worst things you’ve done.”
His throat works as he swallows.
“I see the man who asked for permission before he touched me after what happened,” I continue. “The man who left when I told him to leave, even though it killed him.”
“It did kill me,” he says roughly.
“I know.” The wind lifts my hair across my face, and he brushes it away, careful, reverent. “I don’t know what the future looks like,” I admit. “There may be more enemies. More complications. More choices that terrify me.”
“There will be,” he says without flinching.
“But I don’t want to live my life dictated by fear.
Not of what happened. Not of what might happen.
” My heart pounds now, because this is the edge.
I’m standing on a cliff about to throw myself into the stormy, choppy seas for the first time in my life.
“I love you, Stephen.” The words feel enormous. Heavy but real.
His eyes widen, and for a second, he looks almost stunned.
“I love you,” I repeat, my voice steadier. “Not because you saved me. Not because trauma bound us together. But because I chose you. Knowing who you are. Knowing what you’re capable of. Knowing all of your past. I choose you.”
His swallow is almost audible.
“I am not na?ve,” I continue. “I know you would kill again if someone threatened me. Part of me always knew that. It doesn’t scare me the way it used to. I would kill for you, too. For the family I hope we make one day.”
He searches my face. “Family?”
I nod. “Yes, our family, the one we create together.” The sea crashes below, relentless and alive.
“I don’t need you to be perfect. I need you to be honest. To try the lawful way first before moving into any other direction.
” I grin. “To let me stand beside you, not behind you like some precious porcelain doll.”
“You will never stand behind me,” he says firmly. “Never.”
Emotion swells in my chest so sharply it hurts. “I don’t want to lose myself again,” I whisper. “I don’t want to lose you either.”
“You won’t lose yourself with me,” he says. “And I won’t lose you without a fight.”
A small, watery laugh escapes me. “That I know.”
He pulls me gently toward him, and this time I go fiercely, resting my forehead against his. “I love you.” The words are a low, guttural growl. “And whatever comes next—your healing, my past, our families—we face it together.”
Together.
The word settles into my bones. For months, I’ve been rebuilding myself piece by piece. Reclaiming my body. My mind. My autonomy. And sitting here, on a cliff overlooking a sea that looks wild enough to swallow the world, I realize something else.
What happened to me does not end me.
It does not steal my future.
And loving him does not make me weak.
It makes me brave.
“I love you,” I say again, just to feel how wonderful it is to admit those words aloud, to make them real.
He kisses me then—not desperate, not claiming, but slow and deliberate seduction that leaves me breathless—a promise instead of a demand.
The wind howls around us, and for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something to fear. It feels like something to step into.
With him.