4. Mara
MARA
Iwake up in Pope's bed, wearing nothing but his sheets and two years of guilt.
Consciousness comes slowly—fragments of sensation piecing themselves together like a puzzle I'm not sure I want to solve.
The unfamiliar weight of heavy blankets.
The masculine scent of leather and sandalwood clinging to the pillowcase.
The delicious ache between my thighs that tells me last night wasn't a dream.
Last night.
Ryder.
His name on my lips in the dark. His hands on my body. The way he looked at me like I was salvation and damnation wrapped in one, like touching me was both the answer to everything and a sin he'd never stop paying for.
I reach across the bed, expecting warmth, expecting him—and find cold sheets instead.
My eyes snap open.
Early morning light filters through curtains I don't recognize, painting everything in shades of gray and gold. The bedroom is sparse, utilitarian—nothing on the walls, nothing personal except a worn leather jacket thrown over a chair and a photo on the nightstand I can't quite make out.
And Pope.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, elbows braced on his knees.
The sheet pools at his waist, leaving his back bare—and for a moment, all I can do is stare.
The tattoos I traced last night in the darkness are different in daylight.
Darker. More detailed. A massive Hellbound Saints skull between his shoulder blades, flames licking up his spine, and something else woven through the flames that looks like names. Too many names.
But it's not the ink that makes my chest tighten. It's the tension coiled in every line of his body. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his head hangs forward like he's carrying something too heavy to lift.
"Ryder?" His name comes out rough with sleep.
He flinches.
Actually flinches, like my voice is a blade across already-raw skin. When he turns, the devastation on his face steals my breath.
"Pope, what—"
"I shouldn't have." His voice is wrecked. "Last night. I shouldn't have let that happen."
The words hit like a slap. I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest, suddenly feeling more exposed than I did when he was inside me.
"Let it happen?" I repeat. "I seem to remember being a pretty willing participant."
"That's not—" He drags a hand over his face, exhaling hard. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
He doesn't answer. Just sits there, staring at the floor like it holds some secret I'm not allowed to know. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and something cold starts creeping into the space where warmth should be.
"I'm going to make coffee," I say finally. "And then you're going to tell me what the hell is going on."
His kitchen is as sparse as his bedroom—clean lines, bare counters, nothing that suggests anyone actually lives here. I find the coffee by trial and error, filling the machine with mechanical precision while my mind races.
Last night was... everything. Terrifying and perfect and completely overwhelming. For the first time in two years, I felt alive. For the first time since Marco died, I wasn't drowning in grief and guilt and loneliness. I was present. I was wanted. I was seen.
And now Pope's sitting across from me at his kitchen table, a mug of untouched coffee growing cold between his hands, and he can't even look me in the eye.
"Talk to me." I keep my voice steady, even though my heart is hammering. "Don't shut me out. Not now. Not after—"
"It was a mistake."
"Don't."
"Mara—"
"Don't you dare." The anger surprises me, surging up from somewhere deep and hot. "Don't you dare sit there and tell me that what happened last night was a mistake. I won't let you do that."
He finally looks at me, and the anguish in his eyes almost makes me regret the sharpness in my voice. Almost.
"You don't know—"
"Then tell me." I reach across the table, closing my fingers around his wrist. His pulse jumps under my touch. "Whatever it is, whatever you're carrying, just tell me. I'm not going anywhere."
The laugh that escapes him is bitter, broken. "That's exactly the problem."
"What does that mean?"
Silence. Long enough that I think he's not going to answer. Then:
"The night Marco died." His voice drops, rough and low like the words are being dragged out of him. "I was leading that run. The route we took—I made that call. I'm the one who decided to take the back roads because I thought they'd be safer."
My stomach drops.
"The ambush..." I start.
"Was my fault." He pulls his wrist from my grip, wrapping both hands around his coffee mug like he needs something to hold onto. "I led us right into it. Made the wrong call, and Marco—" His voice cracks. "Marco paid the price. He died because of a decision I made."
The kitchen feels too small. Too quiet. I can hear the refrigerator humming, the distant sound of a car passing outside, the harsh rhythm of Pope's breathing.
I should be shocked. Should be reeling, processing, struggling to absorb this revelation.
But I'm not.
"I know."
Pope's head snaps up. "What?"
"I know you were leading that night. I know you blame yourself."
He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "How—"
"Hammer." The confession comes easier than I expected.
"About a year ago. He came in late one night after closing—I was still here doing inventory, and he looked like he needed a drink more than I needed to go home.
So I poured him one. And then another. And then...
" I shrug. "He didn't mean to say as much as he did.
But I asked the right questions, and once he started talking, it all came out.
The route. The ambush. The fact that you've been carrying the blame ever since. "
"I'll kill him."
"No, you won't. He was hurting, Ryder. Missing Marco.
And I think part of him knew I needed to understand what really happened that night.
" I wrap my hands around my own mug, needing the warmth.
"I never said anything because what was the point?
You were already avoiding me. Already carrying enough guilt to crush a lesser man.
Was I supposed to hunt you down and demand answers you clearly weren't ready to give? "
"You should hate me." The words come out ragged. "I got your husband killed."
"No." I say it firmly, leaving no room for argument. "The Iron Serpents got my husband killed. The men who set up that ambush, who opened fire on people who weren't expecting a fight—they killed Marco. You made a strategic decision with the information you had. Any leader would have done the same."
"But—"
"I don't blame you for Marco's death, Ryder." I hold his gaze, willing him to believe me. "I never have. I never will."
Something cracks in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or the first hint of forgiveness he's never allowed himself to feel.
But there's something else, too. Something darker, lurking behind the gratitude.
"And you still..." He gestures vaguely between us, and at the bedroom door standing open. "After knowing that..."
"Yes." I don't hesitate. "After knowing that."
The relief on his face is almost painful to witness. Like a man who's been holding his breath for years finally being allowed to exhale.
But he's still not meeting my eyes. Still holding something back.
"There's more, isn't there?" I ask softly. "Something you're not telling me."
His jaw tightens. The walls I watched crumble last night are rebuilding themselves right in front of me, brick by brick.
"Ryder—"
"I can't." He pushes back from the table, the chair scraping against the floor. "Not yet. I'm not—I need time, Mara. Please."
I should push. Should demand the whole truth, refuse to let him retreat back behind his defenses.
But the rawness in his voice stops me. He's given me more this morning than he's probably given anyone in years. Pushing harder might break something that can't be fixed.
"Okay," I say. "Okay. But this conversation isn't over."
"I know."
He walks me to the door, and the goodbye is awkward—both of us wanting something neither of us knows how to ask for. He brushes a kiss across my forehead, tender and tentative, and I leave with the taste of coffee on my lips and more questions than answers.
The restaurant is quiet when I let myself in.
After the memorial last night, one of the waitresses locked up—I'd texted her the code when it became clear I wasn't coming back. Now the chairs are still stacked on the tables, the candles burned down to stubs, Marco's photos watching me from every wall.
I don't turn on the lights. Just walk through the dim space, trailing my fingers over tablecloths and chair backs, letting the familiar scents of garlic and wine and memory wash over me.
Marco's face smiles at me from a dozen frames. Our wedding day. The restaurant's grand opening. A candid shot from some club party where he's laughing at something off-camera, his whole face lit up with joy.
I stop in front of that one, my throat tight.
"I slept with him," I whisper to the photo. "Pope…Ryder. I slept with him, and I don't regret it. Does that make me a terrible person?"
Marco doesn't answer. Of course he doesn't. But standing here in the half-light, staring at his smile, I can almost hear what he'd say.
I just want you to be happy, bella. That's all I ever wanted.
The memory surfaces without warning—a night about six months before he died. We'd been sitting on the couch after closing, too tired to move, and he'd looked at me with this strange, knowing sadness in his eyes.
"You deserve to be happy, Mara," he'd said, out of nowhere. "Really happy. Don't waste your life being loyal to a ghost."
I'd laughed it off. Told him he was being morbid. But the way he'd looked at me...
Like he knew something I didn't. Like he was trying to tell me something important and I was too blind to hear it.
"What did you know?" I ask his photo now. "What did you see that I didn't?"
Silence. Just the hum of the refrigerators in the kitchen, the distant rumble of a truck passing outside.
I wander through the restaurant for what feels like hours, touching Marco's things, remembering.
Our first date here, before it was ours—just a struggling Italian place with amazing food and terrible service.
The night he proposed, going down on one knee between tables twelve and thirteen.
The early mornings learning his grandmother's recipes, flour on my face and his laughter in my ears.
I loved him. I did love him. That wasn't a lie.
But was it enough? Was the steady warmth I felt with Marco the same as the fire that blazes through me when Pope—when Ryder—looks at me?
I sink into a chair at table seven—our table, the one Marco always saved for us—and let myself feel everything I've been running from for two years.
The grief. Still there, but softer now. Like a wound that's finally starting to scar over.
The guilt. For the feelings I couldn't control. For the relief I felt when the weight of an unfulfilling marriage lifted. For moving on when part of me whispers I should mourn forever.
And underneath it all, something new. Something terrifying and exhilarating and impossible to ignore.
Hope.
I pull out my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
I'm not selling the restaurant. Not yet.
I hit send, then type another message.
We need to talk. Really talk. Tonight.
The reply comes less than a minute later.
I'll be there. 7pm.
I stare at the screen, Marco's smile still watching me from the wall.
"I'm going to figure this out," I tell him. "Whatever he's hiding, whatever secrets are still between us—I'm going to get the truth. All of it."
The photo doesn't answer. But I swear, just for a second, Marco's smile looks a little less sad.
Like maybe—just maybe—this is exactly what he wanted all along.