Page 29 of Graciously His

Of course it is.

He sees the answer in my eyes and nods. “Good. I’ll have the moving firm overnight it. I’ll go make the call. You take your minute alone.”

With that, he leaves the bathroom. I’m tempted to go after him, to demand what he intends to do with the menstrual chart. My protesting bladder and the desperate need to take a breath keep me here. I listen to his voice through the door, clearly on the phone, then I approach to lock it as quietly as I can. It’s one of those little buttons that can be disengaged from the outside with a hairpin, but it grants me the illusion of privacy.

I relieve myself, wincing at how it stings, then I consider the door. Nate’s voice is just audible. Mother’s face pops into my mind without warning, the way she might look if she heard someone going into the adjacent townhouse in the dead of night. She might confront them. She might ignore them. It occurs to me for the first time that I should call her and reassure her that I’m okay, that Nate is—

I stop my spiraling thoughts by looking into the mirror. Peering back is the woman who let a man fuck her the same day her husband died. She’s a hollow-eyed wraith with love bites on her neck and nothing but a white towel and a flimsy lock for protection. I try to see some kind of redemption for her, some future she might look forward to.

The door handle jiggles, and I already know what the woman in the mirror will do, even as her puffy eyes flash with defiance. She’s going to walk to that door and let the man in. She’ll let him run the shower until it’s nice and warm. Then she’ll let him clean her everywhere, touch her everywhere. She’ll sit passively while he puts arnica on her wrists and a warm compress on her vulva. She’ll settle down in the circle of his arms for the night, sleeping like someone whose body is whole and trustworthy, and whose husband loves her without pain.

I meet my own eyes in the mirror, seeing the decision reflected back at me, already made.

Then I watch myself let Nate in.

Chapter 15

Nate

Iwake alone to faint sunlight edging through the open bathroom door.

“Grace?” I touch the mattress at my side.

Cold.

I slide out of bed.

She must be here. There’s no way she left. I’d have heard something—

I force myself to stop thinking and start moving. The bathroom and walk-in closet are empty. I sift through the discarded clothing on the floor, mildly reassured to find my keys, phone, and wallet. Flicking through apps, I check my outdoor cameras, wishing I’d gotten around to installing indoor ones. Nothing. My car is parked out front. Grace must be in the house.

I let myself breathe once more. She didn’t slip away while I slept, though she might have had reason to, given how aggressive I was. I’ve planned this for years, but Nick’s death moved the timeline forward and complicated the equation. Now the fight is against the chronic drag of her mother, which means doubling down on seduction across all dimensions until Grace cannot even think beyond me.

My one reassurance is that the cameras say what Grace herself won’t: at least some part of her wants to be here. I just need to keep moving that timeline forward.

Starting with finding my girl—right fucking now.

I pull on a fresh T-shirt and a pair of boxers, wondering what Grace herself is wearing, given her clothes are all still on the floor and I made her sleep naked. It was easy to draw her into bed, to whisper her to sleep, saying things I probably shouldn’t. I thought I’d wake if she moved, but my Grace can be sneaky.

The house is quiet. I check each room quickly, confirm that the front door is locked, and that her bag is where I left it—her phone, too. Still uncharged.

That’s when I hear a laugh, quiet and distant, and feel myself smile.

The kitchen.

I know exactly who I’ll find with her. Passing the dining room, I smell something burning and speed up. The image that greets me is one I’ll tuck alongside the girl in white lace and the tragic bride about to make a mistake: Grace sits with her back against the closed French doors, a plate at her side, and a beast eating greedily from her hand. She’s wearing my shirt from yesterday, sleeves rolled up messily. As I watch, Shep finishes a mouthful and steps into her lap for more.

“No, boy.” She laughs. “You’ve had all the good bits and we’ve got to bin the rest. Serve us right, trying to cook eggs on cast iron.”

“The trick is to use plenty of butter on medium heat,” I say, leaning against the island.

Grace draws in a sharp breath, her arms tightening around Shep. The dog doesn’t bother to greet me.

“Want me to show you?” I nod at the stove.

She says nothing. I approach, admiring the way the rising sun lights her from behind, warming her through the French doors.

I retrieve the plate from the floor then give her a peck on the forehead. “I’m happy you’re here, Grace.”