Two simple words, but they hit me like a physical blow. Good morning. Like we’re normal people who wake up together every day, not trained killers who tortured her abuser together and claimed her in a twisted hunt. This casual intimacy, this quiet moment—it’s so far from the life I was trained for that sometimes I can’t believe it’s real.
I reach out, tracing the curve of her jaw with my fingertips. “Morning, beautiful.”
Her skin is warm beneath my touch, alive and vibrant. Behind her, Ace shifts, his eyes opening instantly as if some invisible current passed between us. This has always been our way—one wakes, the other follows within moments. Ever since we were kids in those cold dormitories, sensing each other’s consciousness across the room.
“One year,” Ace says quietly, his voice still rough with sleep.
I meet my twin’s eyes over Keira’s shoulder. One year since we hunted her through Purgatory’s industrial maze. One year since we claimed her as ours. One year of discovering that possession could transform into something deeper, more permanent than we’d ever imagined possible.
Keira rolls onto her back between us, looking from me to Ace and back again. Her smile grows wider, genuine happiness lighting up her face despite the marks we left on her body last night.
“Best year of my life,” she says simply.
I freeze, caught off guard by the raw honesty in her voice. After everything—the Hunt, the kidnapping, killing Henderson, the constant danger of our lives—she still considers this the best year she’s ever had. And fuck if that doesn’t make my chest tighten with emotions I never thought myself capable of before her.
I slide out of bed carefully, signaling to Ace with a quick glance. We’d planned this moment for weeks. As Keira stretches between the sheets, I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead.
“Stay in bed. We’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Keira’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t argue. “Mysterious morning activities?”
“Something like that,” Ace says, already pulling on his sweatpants. “Just give us fifteen minutes.”
In the kitchen, we move with practiced coordination. Ace pulls ingredients from the refrigerator—eggs, heavy cream,gruyère cheese, fresh chives—while I grab the French press and start the water boiling. Keira’s favorite breakfast has been the same since we discovered it three months ago: Ace’s decadent cheese omelettes with chives and the ridiculously expensive coffee beans we special order from some small-batch roaster in Seattle.
“Think she has any idea?” I ask, keeping my voice low as I pull three place settings from the cabinet.
Ace shakes his head, whisking eggs with precise, measured movements. “No way. Felix kept everything completely compartmentalized.”
I arrange the silverware, positioning each piece with more care than usual. My hands feel strangely unsteady, which is fucking ridiculous. I’ve dismembered people without this level of nervousness.
“The portfolio’s in the safe?” Ace confirms, sliding the first perfect omelette onto a warmed plate.
I nod, setting out three linen napkins. “Got it last night while she was in the shower.”
Ten minutes later, the table is set with steaming omelettes, fresh fruit, and French press coffee. The leather portfolio sits at my place setting, unassuming but containing something that took months to arrange.
“Keira,” Ace calls. “Breakfast.”
She appears in the doorway, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing one of my T-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh. Something tightens in my chest at the sight.
“What’s all this?” she asks, taking her seat between us.
“Anniversary breakfast,” I say, pouring her coffee exactly how she likes it.
We eat, making casual conversation, though I can feel the tension building. Finally, when we’re on our second cups of coffee, I reach for the portfolio and place it in front of her.
“We got you something,” I say. “Open it.”
She looks between us, curious, then unties the leather binding. Her expression shifts to confusion as she reads the first document, then her hand flies to her mouth.
“The Keira Valentino Foundation?” She looks up, eyes wide. “What is this?”
“Full scholarships,” Ace explains. “For dancers aging out of foster care.”
I watch Keira’s hands tremble as she turns the page and finds the mission statement. Her fingers brush over the words as she reads aloud, voice barely above a whisper.
“The Keira Valentino Foundation provides comprehensive dance scholarships to young adults transitioning out of the foster care system, giving them the opportunity to pursue artistic expression while building stability and independence.” She pauses, her breathing uneven. “Many beneficiaries have experienced trauma and abuse within the system, leaving them without resources or support when they age out at eighteen.”
