Chapter 12
Ghost
She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. The five-month mark came and went — quietly, no conversation.
I was supposed to end it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I kept telling myself that I’d do it, that I’d keep the line clear and cold. Surgical. But the truth is that I need more fucking time. I need more of her.
And that’s how one more day became three. Then a week. Then a month. And now it’s been eight months since we stood in front of that goddamn Justice of the Peace with two strangers and a loaded silence between us.
She’s outside now, by the lake behind the cabin, throwing rocks at the water. Barefoot, hair wild from the wind. And I’m watching her like I’ve never had her at all. Starving for every little thing she’s willing to give me.
I don’t know how or when she did it, but she brought a flame back into my life that I thought had been snuffed out forever.
When she touches me, I burn. When she smiles at me, the world fades away — everything except her. Even when she’s scolding me for something stupid — like forgetting to take out the trash, of all things — all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss her.
I thought this whole thing would patch something inside me, maybe stitch a few cracks. Instead, I feel more broken than I’ve ever been. And somehow, more whole than I ever thought possible.
I’m fucking lost in her. Again. I shouldn’t be. I can’t afford to be. She’s dangerous, like a noose woven from silk, soft until it tightens and breaks your neck.
I can’t trust her. I can’t love her.
But none of that matters because her ending is already written, no matter when it comes.
Adora
I’m… happy.
God, when was the last time I could say that? It feels like a lifetime ago. Another version of me, another skin I outgrew and left bleeding somewhere in the past.
But here, now, I’m smiling.
Dominic is making lunch, brow furrowed and glaring like he’s trying to intimidate the vegetables into submission.
It’s ridiculous. And perfect.
My smile lingers, but inside, there’s a pain I can’t shake.
We’ve been married for nine fucking months. And yes, I'm happy. But the truth is that we’re stuck. In this house. In this silence. In the not saying of it all.
I never talk about the past, about what I did. I don’t tell him about the aftermath.
I never ask details about his time in prison. I’m too afraid to do it, I don’t want to lose him.
But he doesn’t ask me either. We circle around it, every day, every hour. We fill the quiet with other things. Laughter, sex, food, music, anything but the truth.
A month ago, I felt it. The last piece of my armor — of the wall I built to keep him out, to protect myself — it cracked, then crumbled into dust. Love for him poured in like sunlight through broken glass, like I never had to smother it into oblivion, hide it in the deepest corners just to keep on surviving.
And now it’s here, sitting heavy in my chest, warm and comforting. But also painful. Because I can’t tell him.
I love him and I can’t tell him.
My eyes drop to the book in front of me, but most of the words blur together. I’ve been reading and re-reading Sugar and Ash obsessively for weeks now. It’s my favorite novel, but that’s not why I can’t seem to put it down lately.
It’s because of one short sentence.
“Do you speak Spanish?” I ask, glancing back at Dominic. “I know your father was from Spain, but did you ever really learn it?”
He never shared many details about his birth parents. Not before, and definitely not now. I guess it was always too painful for him to dwell on them, having lost them both in one night to a drunk driver.
The knife in his hand stills mid-chop. A second later, he sets it beside the half-cut vegetables and looks at me.
“Yeah,” he says, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “My dad taught me.”
His tone is softer than I’ve ever heard from him. The sound melts inside my chest.
“Will you translate something for me?” My voice comes out shaky. I don’t know why I’m asking him to do this.
“Sure, adorable.” His smile looks more natural now, but his gaze sharpens with curiosity.
I clear my throat and flip through the pages until I find it. I don’t need to search long. I’ve read it hundreds — maybe thousands — of times these past few days.
“A wish is not a promise, but a promise is a wish.” My finger traces the line as I speak, following each word.
When I look up, he’s no longer smiling. Something flickers in his eyes, then scatters before I can fully catch it.
He swallows.
“Un deseo no es una promesa, pero una promesa es un deseo.” He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “What do those words mean to you?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, shaking my head with a light laugh. “It just sounded beautiful. That’s all.”
I’m not ready to pull it apart, to admit why everything suddenly feels heavier. I could’ve translated this online if I really needed to, but it was never about that. I just wanted to place a piece of him beside a piece of something I love, and see if the two belonged together.
Ghost
She loves me.
I see it in her eyes, in the way she looks at me like I’m home. In the curve of her smile when I walk into the room, in the softness of her body when I hold her at night.
She’s given in. Completely.
After all this time, after everything, I’ve finally broken her walls.
And I’ve accepted that she's broken mine, too. I love her. Again. That’s a curse I’ll carry for the rest of my life, heavy around my neck.
But I know now — no matter how long I keep her, no matter how many months or even years I stretch this out — it’ll never be enough. I will never have enough of her.
She loves me, which means it’s time to end it.
Bones is still breathing, and Temperance doesn’t look like she’s going to finish the job. Whatever was between them has settled into something that looks dangerously like peace. The problem with peace, though? It gives men like Bones time to notice things. Start asking questions.
Soon, he’ll become suspicious. He already almost did once. Because I’ve started to change, and he saw it. Before he can find out himself, I have to tell him the truth, and then I need to finish what I started.
I sigh and close my book, then glance at her. She’s curled up beside me with one of those ridiculous paperbacks she’s been devouring, hair a mess, skin flushed from earlier.
“Adora, we need to talk.”
Her breath catches, and her eyes snap to mine. Wide. Frightened. Yeah, those words do sound terrifying.
I lick my bottom lip, trying to find the right approach. Then I give up. Rip the bandage.
“I’m taking you to the clubhouse.”
Her eyes widen, surprise cutting through the fear. “You are?” she asks, voice small.
I nod slowly, watching her reaction. “Yeah. It’s time. I want to make it clear to the brothers what’s happening. No more hiding. We move forward now, together.”
I lean in and kiss her. A soft lie against her lips. An empty assurance.
When I pull back, I see the questions rising behind her eyes. Her mouth opens, trembling around words she doesn’t say.
In the end, she just whispers, weakly, “Okay.”
For some reason, I almost flinch. She trusts me. It’s exactly what I wanted, so why does it feel so hollow?