Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“Elijah.”
“And he’s taken a few solid hits since then,” he added, gently taking my elbow. “So, you know, you’re in safe hands. Kinda.”
I could hear laughter behind me—Malcolm’s specifically.
“What about the cake?” I called out, only half joking.
“Here’s some cake for her.” I didn’t even have to see his face to know Malcolm was handing it over like it was a sacred offering.
A small plate was pressed into my palm as Elijah guided me out the front door, and I laughed despite myself. Only my cousin would know I wouldn’t tolerate being kidnapped—even gently—without cake.
I wasn’t scared. I trusted the Townsend-Rossis with my life, and they’d already more than proven I could. Still, the curiosity buzzed in my chest like electricity. “He” could only mean Webb. And if that was true—if they were taking me to him—then I was more than okay being blindfolded and chauffeured.
Elijah kept up the conversation in the car, launching into a story about how his youngest had decided he was a dog now and had taken to eating kibble out of their Great Dane’s bowl and barking at squirrels. I chuckled and tried to respond like I wasn’t half-distracted, but mostly my thoughts were spiraling.
Where were we going? Was this his way of avoiding the awkward “hi, so we almost died and then didn’t speak for months” reunion? Or was this something more?
The twenty-minute drive passed in a haze, and the world outside was a blur until the car finally crunched to a stop on the gravel. Before I could fully process it, the door swung open, my seatbelt clicked free, and I was being lifted out of the truck—into strong, familiar arms that had lived in my imagination every single night since I left.
I sank into his chest without a second thought, every part of me recognizing what I’d been missing.
Webb.
I would’ve said his name, but before I could even catch my breath, Elijah’s voice boomed behind us. “Cake!”
Something small and plastic was pressed into my hand again, and though I could barely manage a laugh around the flutter in my chest, it slipped out anyway. The air was rich with the scent of cut grass and fresh flowers, and somewhere in the distance, dogs barked faintly. A breeze brushed the back of my neck, cool against my skin, and I became aware of the gentle motion—Webb was carrying me, his steps slow and deliberate.
He lowered me onto what I assumed was solid flooring—no grass underfoot, no stone, just smooth hardwood. Then, fingers brushed against the knot at the back of my head, and the blindfold slipped free.
I blinked up at him, blinking past the haze of light and emotion, and before I could even stop myself, I reached up, tangled my fingers in his shirt, and kissed him hard.
Weeks of worry, months of longing, a thousand questions—all of it poured into that kiss. He tasted like relief and heat and something that felt dangerously like home.
When I finally pulled back, breathless and overwhelmed, I smacked his chest. “Why can’t you ever do anything normally?”
Webb grinned, brushing a hand over my hair like he couldn’t quite believe I was real. “Nothing about us has been normal so far, so why break the habit of a lifetime?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but then I caught it—the faint scent of fresh paint, sawdust, and something floral layered beneath it. I was about to ask where we were, but Webb was still staring down at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
“If we don’t move,” he murmured, eyes dropping to my lips, “I’m going to make love to you on top of that cake plate.”
My mouth twitched. Tempting. Very tempting. But…
“I really want the cake,” I admitted, genuinely torn.
He laughed, full and deep, and kissed the top of my head. “That’s my girl.”
He turned me gently, one hand at my waist, and guided me forward. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
We walked slowly through the house, and I realized with every step that it had been completely redone.
The walls were painted a soft, calming shade of pale sage, and one hallway was lined with framed prints that looked like tattoo art—bold lines, intricate designs, roses, skulls, and mythic creatures brought to life in ink and color. It was a perfect reflection of Webb himself—his skin, his history, everything that made him who he was.
Woven between the tattoo art and the darker, edgier pieces that clearly belonged to Webb were softer elements that caught me off guard—delicate light fixtures casting a warm, golden glow and billowy curtains that danced in the evening breeze through cracked windows. A textured throw was draped over the back of a couch that looked like it'd been chosen for comfort, not just practicality. Everywhere I looked, there were small, thoughtful details—softness and light, subtle color, and calm—that felt unmistakably like me. As if someone had studied all the quiet corners of who I was and tucked them gently into this space, waiting for me to notice.