Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
My heart flutters traitorously, but almost immediately I feel that familiar tightness in my chest—that warning sign I've come to recognize. The first hint that I might slip away and Mads might take over. That I might lose this moment before I've even had it.
I take a steadying breath and turn in his arms, careful to maintain a slight space between us. My eyes drink him in—hair still damp, curling slightly around his ears just as I'd imagined. Droplets of water cling to his collarbone, catching the golden morning light. I want to lick them off. He's dressed in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, revealing the hard planes of his chest and muscled abs.
He's beautiful. And he's mine. Even if I can't have him the way I want.
He smiles down at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that's always been just for me. "What's for breakfast?" he asks, but the way his gaze drops to my lips tells me food is the last thing on his mind.
My throat tightens. I want him so badly it physically hurts, but I know what will happen if we go too far. I'll disappear, and she'll emerge. Again.
"I was thinking coffee," I reply, resting my hands lightly against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palms. "And maybe pancakes?"
His eyes soften with understanding, and he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead instead of my lips. "Pancakes sound perfect."
Relief and disappointment war within me. He knows. Of course, he knows. He's becoming just as attuned to the subtle shifts in me, and the invisible boundaries I can't seem to cross.
"I'll get started on the coffee," I say, slipping out of his arms and moving toward the cabinet where we keep the mugs. The physical distance helps me breathe easier, even as my body aches for his touch.
He leans against the counter, watching me with those perceptive eyes. "Did you sleep well?" he asks.
"Like a baby," I lie, keeping my back to him as I scoop coffee into the French press. I won't tell him about waking up sore. About finding the clothes. About the scuffed boots and threatening message. Not now, when the morning feels so fragile and precious.
When I turn back, he's closer than I expected, and my breath catches.
"Anna," he says softly, taking the press from my hands and setting it on the counter. His fingers interlace with mine, a simple touch that feels safer than others. "I love you."
Something about the way he says it—so earnest, so completely present—makes my eyes sting with sudden tears. He loves me. Not just her. Me.
"I love you, too," I whisper, and those words, at least, are nothing but truth.
He pulls me into a hug, just holding me, his chin resting on top of my head. It's chaste but intimate, this embrace. Safe. I let myself melt into it, breathing in his scent, memorizing the feel of his chest rising and falling against mine. His clean scent filling my nose.
"Let me make you breakfast," he says into my hair. "You sit. Relax."
I nod against his chest, reluctantly pulling away. As he moves around the kitchen gathering ingredients, I watch him, mentally tracing the lines of his body, loving him from this safe distance.
We're not like other couples. We can't be reckless and passionate, falling into bed on a whim. But we have this: quiet mornings, gentle touches, and a love that doesn't need physical consummation to be real.
For now, it has to be enough. At least until I can figure out how to fix this—how to fix me.
I press my hand against my abdomen, thinking of the pill I just discarded and the future I'm trying to secure.
"Chocolate chips in your pancakes?" Domhnall asks, glancing over his shoulder with a smile that makes my heart twist.
"Always," I reply, smiling back, letting the warmth of his gaze wash over me.
And if I have to fight to keep this warmth, this love, this man...
Then that's exactly what I'll do.
TWELVE
DOMHNALL
After breakfast, I watch as Anna shoves the laundry into the dryer, her movements more forceful than necessary. Her shoulders are tense, but she's smiling—one of those smiles that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
She turns, catches me watching her, and her cheeks flush.
Christ, she's beautiful—so beautiful it physically hurts to look at her sometimes. Last night with Mads replays in my mind—the darkness of it, the way she demanded and took and gave. And the way I unleashed parts of myself I've been keeping chained. The soreness I no doubt left in the body that Anna woke to.
"You're staring." Anna's voice is soft as she walks past me back toward the kitchen. Her hand brushes mine as she passes. A deliberate, lingering touch.
I follow her, drawn as much like a moth to flame as I ever was. "Can't help it. You're feckin' gorgeous."