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And then I’d been thanking God for the plans that had led to what was hidden away in the crawl space in our closet, because it’d created this familiar stranger who found herself in this same diner every Monday morning.
Kieran may have decided he wanted us to stay here. That didn’t mean I didn’t plan to leave.
In order to continue on with my life and to prepare for a future with or without him, I had to leave the property.
So I did . . . I do.
There’s something thrilling in sneaking away unnoticed from a property filled with mob members, many who are sworn to keep me hidden from the outside world.
Something exhilarating in breathing air that doesn’t feel tainted with every bad memory from my life.
Something addictive in possibly putting myself in proximity with my biggest nightmares, and hoping I’ll be as invisible to them as they’ve always been to me.
The first time hadn’t felt nearly as gratifying as I’d thought it would. In fact, it’d been terrifying. I’d been so sure the moment I set foot on the road outside the main house that a Borello would be waiting for me. Or at any moment, Beck would wake up and realize I wasn’t there.
That fear hadn’t vanished over the last two years, but it had lessened . . . morphed into excitement thrumming in my veins each time I slipped out of the house and crawled back in without alerting anyone.
Sneaking out at night would’ve been easier since Conor guarded the outside of the house and rarely came in, but Kieran was too unpredictable. He knew the dark made it easier for people to move around undetected, which was why he tried so hard to get home at night. He needed to assure himself I was still alive and safely hidden away.
Save Lily. Protect Lily. Hide Lily. Cage Lily.
That never-ending, maddening cycle.
Even though Beck was inside the house with me during the day—unless he was sent somewhere—he typically slept
until noon. That came with the territory of selling on the streets until early hours of the morning. Therefore, mornings were my chance to leave.
Most importantly . . . the person I left Holloway to see only had a small window of time each week to meet up with a girl who was supposed to be dead. And Brooks Street Café in Wake Forest was where we met without fail.
I looked around expectantly for her, then realized a few moments later that my gaze had left the front door and was slowly working across the diner, lingering on the places I usually saw him . . .
My heart betrayed me by increasing in speed at just the thought of him.
His knowing eyes and unrestrained smile.
The way he seemed to demand attention so casually . . . just as he had demanded mine for two years, even spilling over into dreams.
The current of energy that hugged my skin whenever he was near, a feeling so intoxicating and foreign . . . and, yet, there was a hint of familiarity. So much so I had to restrain myself from closing the distance between us to see if it grew. And I couldn’t help but wonder if I knew him, because that buzz had remained constant over the years rather than fading.
He looked at me as if he could see straight through to my heart, and see every hope and fear that lie there. He seemed to understand me even though we’d never spoken a word to each other. And this connection . . . it felt as if my soul was screaming—begging—for me to recognize its mate was within reach, and I was keeping myself from him.
But soulmates . . . they couldn’t be real.
And though his written words were exhilarating and I was dreading when they would end, I spent so much of my time consumed with guilt for being intrigued by someone who wasn’t Kieran.
“My future ex-wife has returned.”
I jolted, pulled away from my musing by the booming voice.
“God, Ethan.” I huffed, a breath of a laugh tumbling from my lips as I finally regained some of my composure. “You scared me.”
Ethan gave me a wounded look and sighed exaggeratedly. “How could I scare you? I am your love. You are mine.”
Ethan was the kind of guy who kept up an endless stream of teasing words, just waiting for someone to smile back at him—to laugh at his jokes.
Like a golden retriever waiting to be petted. In a way, it was almost endearing.
“My lovely lover,” he continued when I didn’t offer anything, “I haven’t seen you in years. Where have you been? I thought you’d decided to leave me.”
