25. Eva
EVA
Two chairs on the front porch. That’s what I notice first. And it cracks my heart open just a little bit.
He wasn’t lying when he said this place was off the grid.
The cabin is tucked at the end of a dirt road with rows of trees so thick on every side that the rest of the world could never catch a glimpse of what lies behind them.
There are no neighbors or streetlights. And the only sounds are of nature… crickets, birds, and rustling leaves.
I follow Wolfe inside. The cabin is small with only one level.
There’s a bedroom and a kitchen that’s actually stocked, which surprises me until I remember that this is Wolfe, and an empty pantry would be an unresolved variable his brain couldn’t tolerate.
We pass a bathroom with a clawfoot tub that looks like it belongs in a different century, and then finally a living room with a couch and an entire wall of bookshelves that makes me stop dead.
The books are organized by subject, and within each subject, they’re alphabetized. Coding manuals next to philosophy next to neuroscience next to a dog-eared copy of The Count of Monte Cristo that looks like it’s been through a war.
I pull it off the shelf and hold it up. “The Count of Monte Cristo? Interesting choice for you.”
“Why?” he asks.
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “A wrongly imprisoned man who spends decades planning the perfect revenge using his intelligence?”
He shrugs. “I found it relatable.”
“That’s concerning, Wolfe.”
“Not the only thing about me that’s concerning, I’m sure.”
I chuckle. “Noted.”
I put the book back and look around. The whole place is just…
him. Quiet and organized down to the last-minute detail.
But the cabin isn’t stark and cold and vacant…
all the things I expected it to be. There’s something underneath all the precision that I didn’t expect.
A warmth I can’t explain or pinpoint, but just feel.
I walk around, the worn hardwood floors creaking under my feet.
“How long have you had this place?” I ask.
“Three years. I bought it with cash so there wouldn’t be a mortgage or paper trail. Ronan doesn’t even know the address.”
“Ronan doesn’t know?”
“Nobody knows. That’s the point.” He sets our bags down and looks at me. “You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here.”
My mind trips back to the two rockers outside the front door.
This man who hides behind computer screens and cereal boxes and heavy metal band t-shirts just brought me to the one place on earth that’s entirely his.
The place nobody else has ever seen. The place where Wolfe Molloy exists without an audience.
“Show me the rest,” I say, reaching for his hand.
He walks me down the short hallway to the bedroom.
A queen bed with a simple frame sits in the center.
It’s covered with a quilt, one that looks to be handmade.
I lean down and run my palm over the colorful patchwork design of faded blues and greens and a deep burgundy that’s worn soft from years of use.
The stitching is uneven in places. It’s not perfect, but it’s easily the most beautiful thing in the cabin.
“Where did this come from?” I ask, looking up at him.
“My mother made it.”
My hand stills on the fabric. “Your mom.”
“Yeah. Before she got sick. She made one for each of us. Ronan’s is blue.
Lochlan’s is gray. Cillian’s is green. Mine was the last one she finished.
” He touches the edge where the burgundy meets a faded blue square.
“She ran out of the burgundy, so she switched to whatever she had left from the others. That’s why the colors don’t match at the end.
” His voice is thick, his eyes suddenly sad.
“Wolfe.” I straighten up and run my hand down his arm. His pained blue eyes settle on my face.
“She gave it to me about a month before she died. I was thirteen. She sat on my bed and told me that the colors didn’t match, but that was the point because things don’t have to be perfect to keep you warm.”
My throat tightens so hard I can barely breathe. His voice is flat, emotionless, unlike his expression.
“Do your brothers still have theirs?” I ask.
“I don’t know. We don’t really talk about her.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe.” He moves past me toward the bathroom like the conversation is over, and I let him go because I know what it costs him to say things like that, and I’m not going to make him pay twice.
The back porch has two chairs and a view of nothing but trees. I stop in the doorway because I can’t resist the urge to ask about them.
“Two chairs,” I say.
He turns. “What?”
“You said nobody has ever been here. But you bought two chairs.”
He looks at the porch. Then back at me. His thumb taps once against his thigh.
“I bought them three years ago,” he says. “I don’t know why.”
“Yeah, you do.”
He doesn’t answer. But the tapping stops and his expression loosens. It’s not sad anymore. And my heart floats up a little higher in my chest.
The first day here is probably the quietest day of my life. And I mean that in the best way possible.
At dinnertime, we move around the kitchen together. Wolfe boils pasta that I found in the pantry, and I heat sauce from a jar. I pile both plates high with food, and we eat on the couch with our legs tangled together. Sal would disown me if he saw this meal. He’d probably cry.
“This sauce is total crap,” I say, my lips twisting. “It’s so…ugh. Sweet. This is not how sauce is supposed to taste. Sal would be horrified.”
“Jar sauce is efficient.”
“Efficient is not a compliment for food, Wolfe.”
“Yeah, but it accomplishes the objective.”
“The objective of tasting like ketchup with an identity crisis?”
He smiles. “I’m sure it’s not the worst thing you’ve ever tasted.”
I let out a snort. “I don’t know. This stuff is dangerously close to the food I had to choke down in prison.”
After dinner, we wash and dry the pots and dishes.
Then he places a hand on the small of my back and leads me out to the porch.
Toward the two chairs. His hand reaches across the gap and finds mine in the dusky blue evening.
We sit there, watching the sky turn inky and the stars glitter on the dark canvas.
For one hour, I let myself forget that we’re hiding out here because a Russian criminal is trying to destroy my life.
For one hour, I’m just a woman holding hands with a man on a porch in the woods.
I sneak a sidelong glance at Wolfe. Something is off with him.
I’ve been feeling it all day. Small things.
The way he looks at me for a second too long, like he’s taking a photograph with his eyes.
The way his hand finds my face at random moments, his thumb tracing my cheekbone like he’s trying to make sure I’m still real.
The way he wraps his arms around me, keeping them locked for a second longer than he used to, almost as if he’s bracing for the moment he might have to let go.
I file it under “Operation: Dismantle Dmitri Stress” because the alternative is a door I’m not ready to open.
I wake up suddenly hours later, shooting up from the mattress. My hand reaches for Wolfe but he’s not there.
Stifling a yawn, I creep into the hallway and move toward the kitchen where I find him standing at the counter staring at a glass of water like it owes him an explanation for something.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask softly.
He turns, his blue eyes devouring me. His Black Sabbath shirt skims the middle of my thighs. I run a hand through my sleep-tousled hair as I take a step toward him. A shadow eclipses his expression, taking on a darkness I’ve never seen before. It’s deeper, hungrier. Equal parts want and fear.
I swallow hard, my pulse kicking against my throat.
He looks at me like he knows exactly what he has to lose.
“Come here,” he says.
I cross the kitchen. He puts his hands on my waist and pulls me against him and just holds me. His chin rests on top of my head. His arms wrap around my back. I press my face against his bare chest and his heartbeat thuds under my cheek.
We stand there for a long time. No words. Just his body and mine and the sound of him breathing.
“You’re doing it again,” I murmur.
“Doing what?”
“Hanging on to me like I’m about to bolt. You’ve been acting weird all day. The face touching, the staring. I’m not stupid, Wolfe. You’re somewhere else.”
His arms just tighten around me.
Which is basically a confession.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His hands come up to my face, his thumbs on my cheekbones. He looks at me with those piercing eyes and my stomach flips because I can finally see what’s flickering in the depths.
It’s grief. Like he’s mourning something that’s still alive.
“I’m right here,” he says. “I promise.”
“Give me facts, Wolfe.”
“Okay.” His thumb traces the outline of my lower lip.
“Fact. I’m standing in my kitchen holding the only person who’s ever made this place feel like something other than a bunker.
” His voice drops. “Fact. You’re wearing my shirt and it’s taking everything in me not to pull it over your head right now.
” Another pause. “Fact. I’ve been trying to find the words for what I feel about you all day and my brain keeps shorting out. ”
“Then stop looking for words,” I whisper.
I pull his mouth down to mine.
This kiss is different from every other kiss we’ve had. It’s not urgent or fueled by adrenaline, anger, or a death threat. This kiss is slow and aching and deep. Like we’re the only two people on the planet who have no shortage of time to explore one another.
Ironic, given the circumstances and the very real timeline that’s about to kick off.