Page 43 of Burned

And he did this to show me—to show my family—we are absolutely worthy of luxury.

Mack stands there, huge and tattooed and, for one impossible second, looking like a man trying not to smile.

“Ready to shop?” he asks.

Red Shutters is gone.

Not literally. The stone walls remain. The beams, the fireplace, the windows looking out toward his dense Scottish woods.

But the living room and dining room have been transformed.

Completely.

Clothing racks and shelves have replaced the furniture. Not random clothes.

Beautiful clothes.

Soft knits and silk flowing like water. Lounge sets folded in creamy stacks.

Cashmere nestled on polished wood.

Shoes line the far wall in neat rows. Boots. Heels. Flats. Slippers that look softer than clouds and probably cost more than my old wardrobe combined.

Handbags sit on the dining table, each one arranged like treasure.

Black leather. Deep burgundy. Soft taupe. One of the exact blue of a stormy evening sky.

Things we can enjoy on a night out when we get free.

A separate table holds beauty products.

Perfumes. Hair oils. Make up palettes in warm neutrals and soft pinks. Bath products wrapped in ribbon. Candles. Soaps. Little jars of salts and oils and things I recognize only from shop windows I peered into.

Books are stacked beside the fireplace.

Actual books.

New hardbacks. Worn-looking classics. Romances with discreet covers for Cass. A stack of children’s books for Ryan.

And in the corner, on a rug that wasn’t there this morning, sits a pile of toys.

Lego. Art supplies. Model cars. A science kit. A stack of Spider-Man comics. And folded on top of a large box, like a holy offering, is bright red-and-blue Spider-Man bedding.

Ryan makes a noise of pure, unfiltered joy.

“Spider-Man,” he whispers.

Then louder.

“Spider-Man.”

Cass’s hand flies to her mouth.

I turn slowly.

Lucian stands near the fireplace.

Not smug.