Page 63 of Shadow Secrets
Sutton stopped breathing. Her lips parted, her brown eyes filled with tears. “Seriously?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Seriously.”
A single tear slid down her cheek, tracking through the dot of ink. Her hand pressed harder against his chest, and her whole body leaned into him. “Seb.”
“He drew you the way he loved you,” Sebastian said quietly. “I want to carry that. I want the two of you on me—the lynx you made me, and the portrait he made of you. They’re both part of the reason you’re here. And I want every piece of you I can have.”
She made a small sound, then kissed him again, harder this time, her hand still over his heart. When she broke it, her smile was the most unguarded thing he had ever seen. “I would love that,” she whispered. “I would love that so much.”
He held her there between his knees, his forehead against hers, her hand over his heart. The new lynx pulled gently at his ribs, the old scar hidden beneath it. The whole impossible architecture of the last three weeks folded down into this single, quiet moment in a parlor where they had once been strangers.
Outside, the light was turning toward dusk. Sebastian Whitaker—exiled, professionally wary, emotionally armored, afraid of every bright thing—held the woman he loved and felt, for the first time since that fundraiser six years ago, like he knew exactly where he was supposed to be.
EPILOGUE
Sutton
Christmas Eve
The tree was too big, but smelled absolutely glorious.
Sutton had known it wouldn’t fit the moment Sebastian and CB had hauled it through the front door of the farmhouse, needles raining down the length of the hallway, the trunk scraping against the frame because neither of them had thought to measure the doorway before they’d driven ninety minutes into the Bitterroot National Forest with their permit to cut the thing down.
It had stood nine feet tall in the clearing. It stood eight feet nine inches tall in the living room only because Sebastian had gotten frustrated and cut another three inches off with a bow saw while CB held it steady and Mack heckled from the couch.
It was perfect.
Sutton stood in the living room with a glass of red wine, watching the whole impossible scene of her life refract off the tree’s twinkle lights. She’d ordered the white fairy lights from a company in Maine. Hand-cut paper stars she’d made with her mother last week at the kitchen table dangled from a series of branches, along with a set of vintage glass ornaments Eleanor Whitaker had insisted on flying out with her from Greenwich. She’d carefully wrapped them in tissue paper and guarded them through two plane changes. When she’d arrived, and Sebastian had been surprised over them, she’d said, “They belonged to your grandmother, and if I’m going to start doing holidays with you again, we’re doing them properly.”
The living room was still a work in progress—the wallpaper she’d picked out for the far wall hadn’t arrived yet, one of the built-in bookshelves was waiting for a new set of brackets, and the original hardwood she’d talked Sebastian into restoring still had three squares of a mismatched patching underneath the tree stand—but the room worked.
Sage green walls, a deep, worn leather couch that had taken her three weekends of estate sale hunting to find. She also added a braided rug she’d found stored in the attic. The mantel was crowded with photographs and framed sketches.
This was no longer the month-to-month lease of a man preparing to disappear.
This was a home.
She took a slow sip of wine, not quite believing any of it was real. Eleanor Whitaker and Diane Crenshaw were in the kitchen arguing pleasantly over the correct way to reheat stuffing. They’d been circling each other with polite wariness, and somewhere around three, Eleanor had asked Diane about her watercolors.
Sutton’s mom had blushed and pulled out her phone to show a painting she’d done that morning upstairs in Sutton’s new art studio. It was her first in six years. Eleanor had put her hand over Diane’s and said, “You must teach me, you have such a remarkable eye.” Sutton had pretended she needed to check for cranberries so she could cry behind the refrigerator door.
Dom was on the couch with their new employee, Arlan Rivers. The two of them were looking over a binder of custom designs a prospective client had dropped off at Iron Rose yesterday. Dom was still thinner than he should be, still moving carefully when he got up, but back. Back at the parlor. Back to work full-time. He’d also been telling Sutton she was running his shop into the ground by charging premium prices, and then quietly raising his own rates to match hers.
Arlan was an older Outlaw she’d hired. He’d slotted into the parlor as if he’d always belonged there. He did old-school traditional work that Sutton couldn’t do and didn’t want to try, and he’d brought a loyal client base of bikers and construction guys who’d doubled Iron Rose’s weekly traffic inside a month. He and Dom had become friends—the kind who sat on a couch at a Christmas Eve party and pored over a client binder like it was the best reading material in the room.
CB and Regan were by the fireplace with Regan’s mother. Regan was tucked against CB’s side in a way that made Sutton’s chest ache every time she looked at them.
Vivi and Ian stood by the tree, Vivi pointing out some ornament detail. Claire was on the phone by the window, apologizing to someone and simultaneously refusing to go into the office.
Two of the Outlaws—grizzled, leathered, bearing paper plates piled with Diane’s pecan pie—had taken up residence at the dining table and were deep in a debate with Mack about whether Triumph or Ducati was the superior brand of motorcycle. Mack, who didn’t ride, was holding his own surprisingly well.
And Sebastian.
He stood near the kitchen archway with Garrett and Jasper, all three of them laughing. Sebastian had his head thrown back, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his hand curled around a glass of whiskey that had probably been untouched for half an hour.
She watched him for a long moment. This was a man who, by his own admission, had eaten alone and declined every team dinner invitation that had come his way. A man who, four months ago, had lived in this same farmhouse and hadn’t put a single photograph on its walls because he’d been preparing, always, to disappear again.
He wasn’t eating alone anymore.
