Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Cleo
Morning casts a pale stripe across the ceiling.
The door remains slightly open, just the way I like it.
The house breathes in and out in the quiet, private way of places that have been lived in for so long they seem to forget to be watched.
I pull on a knitted sweater and worn jeans that feel like forgiveness.
This time, I slide into flats instead of the fuzzy socks I keep meaning to toss.
The hallway smells of cedar and something warm—toast, maybe, or a pan left on low.
Voices rise from the kitchen. Eddie stands barefoot at the stove, tilting a kettle.
Barret is hunched at the island, tuning a guitar, hair still damp.
He looks up when I enter and smiles in that crooked way that should be illegal for people to do. “Morning, princess.”
Eddie lifts his chin. “You sleep through after the second nightmare?”
I nod.
The first one woke me up, and they started running. The second also startled me awake, but when I opened my eyes, they were already in the bedroom. With their arms around me, I finally managed to rest for the rest of the night.
“Did you sleep at all?” I ask.
They both nod.
“To be honest, it’d be easier if we all slept in the same bed,” Barret casually suggests, proving he’s a man who measures a life by what’s comfortable.
“We’re not pressuring her,” Eddie says softly, but there’s no sharpness in it—only care.
Barret lifts his hands in surrender while I say, “I wouldn’t mind.” And then I sigh because it’s more than that.
“Say what you really feel, Cleo,” Barret urges. “We can’t get past anything if we keep bottling it.”
Then, it hit me: the man who usually lets most things slide is the one pushing for answers, for change, for more. That new twist in him is beautiful and a little terrifying.
I study them, then ask, “What changed?”
“Excuse me?” Eddie asks, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
“You two . . . the dynamic is different,” I say, watching them both.
“Different—good, or different, like, let me out of here?” Barret asks, half-teasing, half-cautious.
“Different—” I repeat more carefully—“You seem . . . more grown-up, somehow. Eddie’s letting you lead more. He’s stepping back from being Boss-in-Chief.”
Eddie grins because he will always joke when things are raw. “I’m still in charge, baby,” he winks. “Just delegating.”
Barret shrugs. “He’ll never let go of everything. We’re figuring out a balance. I hope you’ll be ready to be part of that balance someday.”
I want to say it would be amazing. I want to mean it. Instead, I hold the sentence in my mouth like something fragile, a piece of glass that might shatter if I breathe wrong.
“Why don’t we eat before anyone spirals?” Eddie suggests.
“I’m not spiraling,” I protest.
He shrugs, but it’s gentle. “I want to believe you. If you need to talk, we’re here—and—”
“The therapist?” I cut him off.
Eddie nods.
“What if I want to leave? Go home?” Not that I know where home is. The last time I was at my apartment was before I agreed to date Dorian. After that, he never let me go back home.
There was always an excuse, a trip, my mother . . . fuck, my mom. I don’t even know if she’s colluding with Dorian or if she’s a victim like I was.
“We’re . . . working on that,” he says.
“How?” I press.
Eddie’s face changes—the set of his mouth narrows, his fingers curl around the kettle handle like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.
He looks at me and then at Barret, and something like an apology passes him before he speaks.
His throat moves once, twice, and when the words come, they are thin and terrible.
Barret reaches for my hand before I can pull away, his fingers warm and solid. The kettle hisses on the stove like an accusation. I blink, the sentence still settling inside my bones, and for a second my brain goes moon-sick—trying to map the logic of it into something resembling safety.
“What do you mean I have to die?” I ask, the words sounding ridiculous in my mouth, because they sound like something from a bad film script and not the kitchen where our lives are supposed to be safe.
Eddie exhales, a long, tired sound. He sets the kettle down gently, then turns to face me, eyes raw and honest.
“Not literal,” he says quickly, as if the idea needs a disclaimer.
“We staged your disappearance when we rescued you. We just filed a missing person report under Dorian’s name, which makes him look guilty.
The Bradleys and I are working the rest.” He grins, weirdly proud of the mess of cleverness and risk he’s cobbled together.
“It forces scrutiny—draws attention to his business, his connections. Gives the police something real to chase while we keep you somewhere safe.”
Barret squeezes my hand, voice soft as thread. “Sounds scary,” he admits. “But it’s the only way to get him to the surface. To make his life messy enough that he can’t hide.”
“Killing me off doesn’t sound great,” I try to joke, and it comes out brittle, a cracked thing I immediately regret. There’s the taste of fear on my tongue, metallic and small.
“Cleo, baby. You don’t die,” Eddie says, his smile a taut thing that doesn’t touch his eyes.
He runs a hand through his hair, fingers raking like he’s trying to push the problem back into neatness.
“We set everything up. The Bradleys are building a trail. We make them follow him while you stay put.” His hands find my shoulders.
“We’ll keep you close. We’ll keep you invisible to him until it’s safe to return. ”
“But you might come back under a different name,” Barret adds, almost casually, like an afterthought to a plan that already feels stitched together with fire and risk.
“Okay,” I say finally, because sometimes the only honest answer is the smallest one that keeps us moving. My throat is raw and my hands are shaking, but I let them guide me into this because if I don’t trust them, I might not come out of this alive.
The kettle whistles, breaking the moment.
Eddie turns off the burner, pours water over tea leaves, and the scent of chamomile curls into the air.
Barret pulls plates from the cupboard, sets them down with quiet precision.
They’ve been babying me since the first day I arrived—fussing, anticipating, stepping in before I even think to ask.
And I push back for the first time since I’ve been here.
“I’ll do it,” I say, brushing past Eddie to grab the bread. I drop two slices in the toaster, butter in one hand, jam in the other.
They both watch me, like I’ve just announced I’m leaving the island.
“What?” I shrug, smearing the knife over the golden bread once it pops. “I can make my own breakfast. I don’t need every bite delivered.”
Barret’s grin flashes, wicked and warm. “Look at you, princess, reclaiming the kingdom.”
Eddie leans on the counter, mug in hand, gaze fixed on me. His smile is softer, threaded with something protective he doesn’t bother hiding. “Noted.”
I sit at the island, cross my legs, and eat my toast in slow bites.
I pour tea, spoon in sugar, and stir until it tastes exactly how I want.
Then I slice an apple from the bowl, knife held firm in my hand, the blade clicking against the cutting board.
Barret doesn’t move to take it from me like he usually did even before I disappeared on them.
Eddie doesn’t reach out to help. They just watch and wait.
I stack my plate in the sink and wipe the counter when I finish. “So . . . where’s this pool you were talking about?”
“Down the hall,” Barret responds. “It’s first set of glass doors. It’s saltwater and heated. You can swim year-round. The ceiling even opens when the weather’s good.”
Eddie pushes his chair back, rising. “We’ll go with you.”
Going with me sounds like a normal thing they would do. They wouldn’t want to miss the show, me wet. I don’t know how to feel about it, though some days I feel like a different person with a borrowed body. I don’t know who Cleo is . . . whatever my last name is.
Barret threads his fingers through mine as he stands and pulls me to him. We fall into step together. His stride is longer, but he adjusts, slowing just enough so I don’t have to rush to keep up. The soft thump of our bare feet on the floorboards sounds like a rhythm only we know.
Eddie falls in on my other side, close enough that I can feel the heat from his skin, careful enough not to crowd me.
The corridor shifts around us, cooler air giving way to warmth. It smells faintly of heated tiles and citrus, threaded through with the tang of salt. The lights are low, dimmed to an intensity that makes the whole house feel hushed, like it’s keeping our movements to itself.
Barret adjusts his grip on my hand before leaning his shoulder into the wide glass door. It gives with a sigh, sliding open on its track. Warmth spills out, humid enough to soften the air against my skin, seeping through the knit of my sweater and clinging faintly to my hair.
Inside, the pool glows from below, illuminated in shades of blue and silver that ripple against the tiled walls.
The water remains still, shining like glass until the underlights fracture it into movement.
Chlorine lingers beneath a faint thread of citrus, and the warm air softens the edges of my sweater, clinging lightly to my skin.
It doesn’t feel like a room so much as a secret tucked beneath the house—private, only for the three of us.
It’s not a reveal so much as an unbuttoning.
I watch how the underlights turn the water into a blue-green flame, casting its shimmer onto the high ceiling.
The rest is quiet design—arched beams, pale stone tiles that hold a trace of heat, wide windows fogged faintly where the warm air meets the Washington chill.
My toes curl against the floor, warmed through my flats, and for a moment, I imagine what it will feel like barefoot, slipping into that glow.
“I love it,” I say before I can think better of it. The words fall out raw and honest. For once, I don’t chase them back into silence.
“You were right,” Barret says to Eddie.
“Of course I was.” Eddie tips his chin toward a small room off to the side. “I know our girl.”
The door is half-open, light spilling out in a warm strip across the tiles.
“That’s an ensuite,” he explains. “Suits, towels—everything you’d need to use this place.
” His voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its force.
“I know it doesn’t erase the cage he built around you.
I know freedom doesn’t come in what seems like a safehouse.
But, fuck, Cleo—we’re trying. This is us trying to build something that feels like the rest of your life instead of what he took from you. ”
The truth of it breaks me open in the quietest way. This is about them standing here, handing me pieces of myself like they believe I still belong to a future.
And maybe I do.
Maybe survival isn’t just about not dying. Perhaps it’s about learning how to live when love is the one thing that still terrifies me.