Page 23 of False Heir

She was okay. For now.

I woke to the softness of dawn, the light filtering through the gaps in the curtains and casting a gentle glow on Adriana’s face, and that was the first thing I registered.

She was sleeping, and she was alright.

My arm was numb where she’d used it as her pillow, her body curled into mine like vines intertwined around an ancient oak. For a moment, I let myself just breathe, feel her warmth against me, and pretend the world outside didn’t exist.

“Morning,” I murmured, feeling her stir against me.

She cracked one eye open, a smile playing on her lips. “This is becoming a habit.”

“An excellent habit,” I corrected her with a half-smile, but my chest tightened at the thought that we couldn’t hide away forever. “But yeah, not exactly sustainable.”

“Shame,” Adriana teased, propping herself up on an elbow. “I could get used to this whole cabin sex retreat thing.” Her voice was light, but the weight of our truth wasn’t lost on either of us.

“Me too,” I admitted, running a hand through my hair. “But Boston isn’t going to sort itself out with us here.” I watched her expression shift, a flicker of something serious passing over her features. We both knew it. Our borrowed time was ticking away.

“Speaking of Boston,” I said, reluctantly starting to disentangle from her, “did that pregnancy pillow help any? You tossed and turned less.”

“Speaking of Boston? How are those things related?”

“Because if it did, we’ll have to get you another one for home. You can keep the spare one here.”

She considered this for a few seconds. “Not if we’re not making it a habit. We can’t just run here every time things get dicey.”

“You sure? What’s stopping us?” I asked her.

She splayed her fingers on my chest. “Tristan.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, anyway. How was the pillow?”

“Like sleeping in a cloud,” she confirmed with a nod, her voice still thick with sleep. “Thanks for thinking of it.”

“Anything for you and the twins,” I said, kissing her forehead softly before pulling away completely. My feet hit the cold floor, and I missed her warmth instantly.

But the moment had passed and soon, we were downstairs, having breakfast together.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

I nodded, pouring us both a steaming cup of coffee. The rich aroma filled the small kitchen of our cabin, a comforting scent amid chaos. “Yeah, just thinking about the box. It’s still really weird that someone left it there.”

“When would they have done it?” Adriana asked.

“Hard to know,” I replied. “This cabin is locked up tighter than a nun’s–”

“Hey,” Adriana said with mock outrage.

“Right. But seriously, the territory is very very secure,” I told her.

She raised her eyebrows, taking a sip of her coffee but saying nothing. After breakfast, I double-checked the locks and surveyed the cabin’s perimeter. Paranoia came with the territory, and today, it felt more justified than ever. Satisfied that we were as secure as we could be for now, I returned inside and we set up shop at the rustic wooden table that faced the window.

The retrieved box from the ground sat between us, its contents sprawled across the surface. Faded photographs whispered tales of times and faces long gone. We took things out; old, undated papers, photographs, ledgers. The cryptic letters lay silent, their secrets etched in loops and lines waiting to be deciphered. Every piece, every scrap, felt charged with potential.

But we didn’t know shit.

We didn’t know who these people were, we didn’t know what the letters meant. We knew some came from Dublin–so that was something, at least–but I didn’t know who had sent it or when.

Nothing was dated.

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