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)
She shatters with a scream, her body convulsing around me as wave after wave of pleasure tears through her.
The sight of her—completely undone, completely mine—sends me over the edge.
I bury myself to the hilt, emptying into her with a guttural roar, my vision whiting out from the intensity.
Afterward, as our breathing slows, I gather her gently into my arms, cradling her against my chest. I brush sweaty tendrils of hair from her face, checking for any sign of distress.
"Are you all right, love?"
She laughs softly, her eyes clear and bright as they meet mine. "I'm perfect." She traces my jawline with trembling fingers. "That was... everything."
Relief floods me, but uncertainty still lingers. "No, you're everything. My everything."
TWENTY-ONE
March
ANNA
The sweet aroma of butter and flour fills the kitchen as I check the pie crust through the oven window. Golden brown at the edges—no soggy bottom this time. A little surge of pride rushes through me as I set the timer for the last two minutes of blind baking.
"Perfect," I whisper to myself, feeling ridiculously pleased. Six attempts and I'm finally getting somewhere with my baking skills.
Domhnall's out of town for the night with work—a quick trip to talk to some investors in Austin—so I thought I'd try again so he could come home tomorrow to fresh baked pie.
Domhnall's kitchen—our kitchen now, I remind myself—is a baker's dream. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, marble countertops perfect for rolling out dough, and more gadgets than I could ever use. When I first moved in, I was intimidated by all of it. Now it feels like mine.
I run my fingers over the smooth countertop, smiling at the flour dusting everything. Domhnall doesn't care about the mess. "Kitchens are for cooking, not looking at," he told me once when I apologized for the disaster I'd made attempting croissants. He'd kissed the flour off my nose and told me he loved seeing me happy more than he cared about clean counters.
I'm not ashamed to admit I've been trying to be the perfect wife-to-be. After all we've been through, Domhnall deserves that much—a normal life with someone who can make a decent pie, plan a beautiful wedding, and maybe even start a family soon. Everything I never had growing up suddenly feels within reach.
Our wedding binder sits on the island, thick with fabric swatches, venue photos, and flower arrangements. May seems both impossibly far away and rushing toward us. I flip through it sometimes just to remind myself it's real. I'm getting married. To Domhnall. The boy I loved who became the man who saved me, who held on when anyone else would have let go.
The timer beeps. I slide on the oven mitts—these adorable ruffled ones Domhnall bought me after my third baking disaster when I burned my fingers—and pull out the crust. I lift out the baking paper and beans for the blind bake and admire the crust. It's beautiful. The pie will be magazine-worthy with its fluted edges.
"Just needs filling," I murmur, setting it on the cooling rack.
I already have the spices measured out—cinnamon, nutmeg, and a pinch of cardamom because Domhnall likes it that way. It's the little things I'm learning about him, collecting like precious stones. He likes cardamom in his apple pie and two sugars in his coffee. He sleeps on his stomach with one arm always reaching for me. He sings in the shower when he thinks I can't hear him.
I glance at my phone. My Instacart order with the fresh Honeycrisp apples I need should be here any minute. I've been experimenting with different varieties, and Domhnall seemed to really like the tartness of the Honeycrisps in last week's attempt (even though that crust was definitely underbaked).
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror—flour on my cheek, hair pulled back in a messy bun—and shrug. The delivery person won't care. Besides, there's something thrilling about being so comfortable in my own home, in my own skin.
Dr. Resnick worked a miracle in more ways than one.
Three sessions with him changed everything. I was desperate when I sought him out, tired of the constant switching, tired of sharing my body and feeling like a passenger in my own life. Dr. Ezra had been cautious, always urging patience. But patience wasn't getting me anywhere.
"Integration is possible," Dr. Resnick had told me during our first session, "but it requires you to accept all parts of yourself—even the parts you've been afraid to face."
The hypnotherapy was intense. Terrifying, at times. He took me deep into my own mind, to the places where the fractures began. He made me confront memories I'd buried, feelings I'd denied. I met Mads there, not as an intruder but as a part of me that had been protecting me all along. My anger. My survival instinct. My desire.
He told me I was supposed to talk to her and practice radical acceptance, face to face with all of myself.