I looked around the bathroom. My pristine, sterile, lonely fortress.
"I don't know if I can go back to the city," I admitted. "The noise. The people. Graduation Girl."
"I told you," Anders said, his face hardening. "I scrubbed her. She's gone. And anyone who remembers her will have to go through me, then Daniel, then Simon before they even get a glimpse of you."
He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. His grip was tight, possessive, anchoring.
"You aren't the girl who ran away anymore, Tessa. You're the one who stood in the living room and demanded what she wanted."
He squeezed my hand.
"So tell me. What do you want?"
I looked at him. The man who had cleaned me, claimed me, and was now offering to rebuild my entire life around his.
It felt terrifying. It felt huge.
But for the first time in years, it didn't feel brittle. It felt like something that could hold weight.
"I want breakfast," I said.
Anders let out a startled bark of laughter.
"And then?"
"And then," I said, looking at the door, "I want to see if Daniel really cleared the driveway. Because if we're moving to the city, I'm going to need a lot of boxes."
Anders pulled me into his chest, kissing the top of my damp head.
"I'll call the movers," he promised. "We handle the logistics. You just write the ending."
I leaned against him, listening to the steady, strong thump of his heart. It sounded like a rhythm I could live with. It sounded sustainable.
"Okay," I whispered. "Let's go."
TWENTY-TWO
Anders
The sound of the world returning was a diesel engine grinding against asphalt.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass in the living room, buttoning a shirt that had seen better days. It was wrinkled, missing a button near the collar, and smelled faintly of wood smoke and exertion. Outside, a county plow truck shoveled the last of the debris from the access road, sparks flying where the blade met the pavement. Behind it, a yellow utility van from the Department of Transportation idled, they had repaired the broken cable and were confirming the bridge's integrity.
Civilization had come back online. The trap was open.
And I hated it.
A low, vibrating growl started in my chest, involuntary and primal. For forty-eight hours, this glass box had been a universe of its own. No contracts. No emails. No deadlines. Just the storm, the heat, and the visceral reality of keeping Tessa Kane alive.
Now, the road was clear. Which meant the variables were infinite again.
"Stop growling at the plow driver, Anders," Simon muttered from the couch. "He's just doing his job."
I turned. The living room was a testament to the chaos of the night. The rug was rumpled, the fire burned down to ash, and the air was thick with the scent of us, spiced chai, dark chocolate, and bourbon, all layered over the sweet, heavy base note of blackberry that permeated the drywall.
"I’m not growling," I lied, smoothing my cuffs. "I am assessing the logistical reality."
"The logistical reality is that we're out of coffee," Daniel said, emerging from the kitchen. He held up an empty bag of beans, his face tragic. "And eggs. And bread. And if I don't get Tessa more protein when she wakes up from her nap, her blood sugar is going to crash harder than the stock market."
