Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Monk
The first thing I noticed when I woke was the cold.
Not the kind of cold that came from winter air or an open window. The kind that came from absence. My hand reached across the bed instinctively, searching for warmth, for the soft curve of her body, and found nothing.
My eyes snapped open. The bed beside me was empty. The sheets were rumpled, still holding the faint impression of where she’d been lying, but the space was cool to the touch.
Fuck. My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
She ran. She fucking ran again.
I sat up fast. The blanket fell away from my chest as I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
The room was bathed in warm light. Pale gold filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.
I could hear birds outside. The distant sound of wind moving through the fields.
But inside the house? Pure silence.
I stood, my bare feet hitting the cool floor, and grabbed my jeans from where they’d been discarded last night. I yanked them on, not bothering with the button, and reached for my shirt before slipping both feet into my boots.
My mind was racing.
Where the hell did she go?
I was halfway to the door when I heard it. A sound, so faint and distant. The soft click-click-click of fingers on a keyboard. I froze, my hand on the doorknob, and listened. There it was again. Typing. Coming from downstairs.
I exhaled slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction.
I pulled my shirt over my head and opened the bedroom door, stepping into the hallway.
The farmhouse was peaceful, still holding onto the last remnants of quiet before my daughter or David returned. Tatum’s door was closed. David’s too. I walked down the hallway, my boots silent on the worn wooden floor, and descended the stairs. The kitchen came into view first. And there she was.
My Lina. Sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open in front of her, her fingers flying across the keys.
She was wearing a T-shirt—black, oversized, hanging off one shoulder—and a pair of jeans.
Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, a few loose strands framing her face.
She looked focused. Intense. Lost in whatever she was working on.
The afternoon light spilled through the kitchen window, bathing her in gold, and for a moment I just stood there at the bottom of the stairs and stared.
This is what I’ve been missing.
Not just her. Not just the sex or the passion or the way she made me feel alive. This. The quiet domesticity of waking up and finding her in the kitchen, working, existing in the same space as me. The knowledge that she was here. That she wasn’t running. That she was mine.
I walked into the kitchen, my boots making soft sounds on the tile floor.
She didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch. Her eyes were locked on the screen, her brow furrowed in concentration.
I stopped behind her chair and rested my hand on her shoulder. She jumped slightly, her fingers pausing mid-keystroke, and looked up at me. “Jesus, John,” she breathed, her hand coming up to rest over her heart. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” I said, though I wasn’t.
I liked catching her off guard. Liked the way her pulse jumped under my touch. “What are you working on?” I asked, my thumb brushing against the bare skin of her shoulder.
She hesitated, her eyes flicking back to the screen. “The rape charge,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “I’m doing my own investigation.”
I frowned, leaning down to look at the screen over her shoulder. There were documents open—bank statements, text message screenshots, legal briefs. “Did you find something?” I asked.
“Maybe,” she replied, her tone careful. “I reached out to a contact of mine. Someone who’s good at digging up dirt.”
I straightened, my hand still resting on her shoulder.
“How good?”
“The best,” she said, glancing up at me. “If there’s something to find, she’ll find it.”
I nodded slowly, processing that. Lina wasn’t just defending me. She was going on the offensive. Hunting down the truth. Protecting me, the only way she knew how.
Fuck, I love this woman. “You didn’t have to do this,” I said, my voice rough as she turned in her chair to look at me fully, her expression fierce.
“Yes, I did,” she said. “You’re not going down for something you didn’t do. Not on my watch.”
I stared at her, my chest tightening. She was brilliant. Fierce. Relentless. And she was mine. I leaned down and kissed her—slow, deep, claiming. When I pulled back, her eyes were dark, her lips parted. “Thank you,” I said quietly.
She nodded, her hand coming up to cup my jaw. “We’re in this together,” she said. “You and me. No matter what.”
I kissed her again, harder this time, and she melted into me when the sound of tires on gravel broke the moment. I pulled back, frowning, and looked toward the window. “You expecting someone?” I asked.
Lina shook her head, standing from her chair. “No. Dad’s at physical therapy. Tatum’s at school.”
I walked to the window and looked out as a truck was pulling up in front of the house—an old Ford, faded blue paint, with a dent in the passenger-side door. I recognized it immediately.
Mrs. Patterson. David’s neighbor. The woman who’d been helping out since he got hurt.
The truck came to a stop, and the passenger door opened.
David climbed out slowly, grumbling under his breath, while Mrs. Patterson hurried around the front of the truck to help him.
And between them, bouncing excitedly in the back seat, was Tatum.
She spotted me through the window and waved enthusiastically, her face lighting up.
I couldn’t help it. I smiled.
“Looks like they’re back,” I said, glancing at Lina, who sighed, closing her laptop.
“Great. That means PT didn’t go well.”
I chuckled and headed for the front door.
By the time I stepped outside, Mrs. Patterson was already wrestling David’s wheelchair out of the truck bed. “Let me get that,” I said, jogging down the porch steps.
Mrs. Patterson looked up, her weathered face breaking into a smile. “Well, good afternoon, John,” she said warmly. “Didn’t know you were here.”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Patterson,” I said, taking the wheelchair from her hands. “Let me help.”
I unfolded the chair and locked the wheels in place, then turned to David. He was standing by the truck, leaning heavily on the door, his expression sour. “You good, old man?” I asked, grinning.
David shot me a look. “Don’t start with me, boy.”
I laughed and moved to his side, offering my arm. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
David grumbled but took my arm, letting me guide him into the wheelchair. Once he was settled, I pushed him toward the house. Behind me, I heard Tatum scramble out of the truck.
“Dad!” she shouted, running toward me.
I stopped and turned, crouching down just in time to catch her as she launched herself into my arms. “Hey, kiddo,” I said, lifting her up. “Why are you not in school?”
“Half day!” she answered, her words tumbling out in a rush. “We did art today, and I made a painting, and Mrs. Henderson said it was really good and I got a gold star and—”
“Whoa, whoa,” I said, laughing. “Slow down. One thing at a time.”
She giggled, wrapping her arms around my neck as I carried her up the porch steps, pushing David’s wheelchair with one hand. Mrs. Patterson followed behind, shaking her head. “That man is the most stubborn fool I’ve ever met,” she muttered.
“I heard that, Kathy,” David called from the wheelchair.
“Good,” Mrs. Patterson shot back. “Maybe it’ll sink in this time.”
I bit back a grin and pushed David through the front door. Lina was waiting in the entryway, her arms crossed, her expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. “How’d it go?” she asked.
“Terrible,” Mrs. Patterson said before David could answer. “He refused to do half of the exercises. Told the therapist he knew his own body better than some ‘young punk with a degree.’”
David scowled. “I do know my own body.”
“You’re also a stubborn old fool,” I said, parking his wheelchair in the living room.
David glared at me. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I’m on the side of you not being a jackass,” I said, crossing my arms. “Mrs. Patterson’s right. You need to listen to the therapist.”
“Thank you, John,” Mrs. Patterson said, shooting David a triumphant look.
David muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like traitor, and I grinned. Lina sighed and walked over to her father, kneeling beside his chair.
“Dad,” she said gently. “You have to do the exercises. You want to get better, don’t you?”
David’s expression softened slightly. “Of course I do.”
“Then stop being difficult,” Lina said, squeezing his hand.
David grumbled but nodded as Mrs. Patterson clapped her hands together. “Well, I’ve done my part for the day,” she said. “I’ll leave you all to it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson,” Lina said, standing. “I really appreciate everything you’ve been doing.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, dear,” Mrs. Patterson said, waving her off. “Your father and I go way back. Someone’s got to keep him in line.” She shot David one last look, then headed for the door. “See you tomorrow, David,” she called over her shoulder. “And you will do those exercises.”
David muttered something unintelligible as the door closed behind her, and the house fell into a comfortable silence.
Tatum squirmed in my arms. “Dad, can I tell you about my painting now?”
I set her down gently. “Absolutely. Tell me everything.”
The rest of the afternoon unfolded like something out of a dream as Tatum sat on the couch beside me, her legs swinging as she told me about her day in excruciating detail.
The painting she’d made of a lopsided house with a bright yellow sun.
The game she’d played at recess, tag, which she won, of course.
The boy in her class who’d tried to steal her favorite crayon, for which she told him off.
Through it all, I listened to every word, asking questions, laughing at her stories, marveling at how easy this felt.
Across the room, Lina was in the kitchen preparing dinner.
I could hear the sounds of her moving around—the sizzle of something in a pan, the soft clink of dishes, the hum of the refrigerator.
Every so often, I would glance over and catch her watching us.
Her expression was soft. Tender. Like she couldn’t quite believe this was real either.
David sat in his wheelchair near the window, reading the newspaper and occasionally interjecting with a comment or a joke.
The house smelled like home. Like garlic and butter and something baking in the oven. Like family.
I’d never had this. Not really.
Growing up, it had been me and Abigail, constantly moving, constantly looking over our shoulders. No stability. No roots. No sense of belonging.
And then the club.
The brotherhood was real, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t soft laughter and dinner smells and a little girl telling me about her day. It wasn’t Lina glancing at me from the kitchen with that look in her eyes. It wasn’t home. But this?
This was everything.
“Dad?” Tatum’s voice pulled me back.
I looked down at her. “Yeah, kiddo?”
“Are you staying for dinner?”
I smiled. “Yeah. I’m staying.”
She beamed. “Good. Mom’s making spaghetti. It’s my favorite.”
“Mine too,” I said, ruffling her hair.
She giggled and leaned into me, her small body warm and trusting.
My chest tightened.
I would die for this kid.
I would kill for her.
I would burn the whole fucking world down to keep her safe.
Dinner was loud and chaotic in the best way.
Tatum talked nonstop, her fork waving in the air as she recounted yet another story from school.
David grumbled good-naturedly about the physical therapy, though I could see the pride in his eyes when he looked at Lina.
Lina laughed—really laughed—for the first time in what felt like forever.
And I sat there, surrounded by the three people who mattered most, and felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
Peace.
After dinner, Lina sent Tatum upstairs to get ready for bed. David wheeled himself into the living room to watch the news. And I helped Lina clean up the kitchen. We worked in comfortable silence, moving around each other like we’d been doing this for years.
She washed. I dried.
Every so often, our hands would brush, and she’d glance at me with a small smile. When the last dish was put away, I leaned against the counter and watched her. She was wiping down the table, her movements efficient and practiced.
“What?” she asked, glancing up at me.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just... this.”
She straightened, her brow furrowing. “This?”
“Yeah,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “This. All of it.”
She walked over to me, her expression softening. “What about it?”
I reached out and pulled her into my arms, resting my chin on top of her head. “I never thought I’d have this,” I said quietly. “A family. A home. Someone who...” I trailed off, the words catching in my throat.
Lina pulled back just enough to look up at me. “Someone who what?” she asked gently.
“Someone who loves me,” I said, my voice rough. “Someone who sees all the fucked-up shit I’ve done and still chooses to stay.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “John.”
“I don’t deserve you,” I said, cupping her face. “I don’t deserve any of this. But I’m not letting it go. I’m not letting you go. Not ever.”
She kissed me then, a soft, slow, leisurely kiss full of promise. When she pulled back, she smiled. “Good,” she said. “Because you’re stuck with me.”
I laughed, the sound rough and raw. “Yeah,” I said. “I am.”
And for the first time in my life, I was okay with that.
More than okay.
I was grateful.