Page 28 of Snowy Secrets

12

BELLA

Wyatt's movements are swift and sure as he navigates the kitchen, browning meat and stirring a pot of simmering sauce. The smell is intoxicating. I'm sitting at the kitchen island, watching him. I can't remember the last time I've seen this many men so at ease in the kitchen. Most of my memories are of Dad trying and miserably failing to cook us meals when Mom was away, though he did make a pretty decent pea soup one day. And he was always good at tea and coffee. My first taste of caffeine happened when I was twelve, courtesy of Mom’s being gone for a week.

"Mind if I join in?" Marcus asks, stepping into the kitchen with a grin. He grabs a knife and starts chopping veggies with practiced ease.

The way they move, coordinating effortlessly, is like a dance. Wyatt grates cheese while Marcus dices tomatoes, their banter flowing as smoothly as their movements. I can't help but be impressed. It feels like I've stepped into some kind of suburban fantasy, the kind where men cook and women just sit back and enjoy the show.

"You guys do this often?" I ask, leaning on the counter.

"Every chance we get," Wyatt replies with a smile, tossing a handful of basil into the sauce. "We figured out a while back that we make a pretty good team in the kitchen."

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from them. Marcus is slicing bell peppers now, his muscles flexing under his shirt with each precise cut. They look so impossibly hot working together like this.

"You're doing okay?" Wyatt's voice breaks through my thoughts.

"Yeah," I say, giving him a small smile. "Better now. Thanks."

"Glad to hear it," he says, eyes twinkling as he stirs the sauce. "Dinner will be ready soon."

It doesn't take long before the kitchen fills with the rich aromas of spices and simmering tomatoes. My stomach growls in anticipation. The table is set, and we all sit down to a feast. It's decadent, every dish bursting with flavor. It's hard to believe they whipped this up in such a short time.

As we eat, conversation flows easily. Laughter fills the room, and for the first time in a long while, I feel genuinely happy. But then, as the meal draws to a close, I realize someone is missing.

"Where's River?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

Wyatt clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. Marcus glances at him before answering.

"He's probably having beer for dinner in the study," Marcus says, his tone dismissive. "Might sleep there too, with a bottle of whiskey and a stack of old war stories."

A pang of disappointment hits me. It's not like I miss River, but his absence is conspicuous. I wonder what he's thinking, being all alone while we're here having a good time. It's probably for the best, but goddammit, I can't be under the same roof as him and not think about him. If I'm being honest, that's all I've done.

Wyatt shifts in his seat, discomfort etched on his handsome features. "Maybe you should talk to him, Bella. About whatever it is that’s between you two."

I give him a defiant little glare. "If you so much as…"

He stops me immediately. "I'm not giving him any of your secrets. That's not my place." Marcus looks between the both of us curiously but doesn't butt in. "I'm just suggesting that you need to make the burden of carrying all this rage a little lighter."

A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can contain it. "What do I tell a man who is forever chasing ghosts?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Marcus's gaze sharpens. "You knew where he was going, Bella."

I meet his eyes, a challenge in my own. "I knew where the army was sending him. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

A tense silence descends, broken only by the clinking of silverware against China. Wyatt clears his throat, his gaze darting between Marcus and me like a spectator at a tennis match.

"Service changes a man," Marcus says, his voice low and measured. "You can't expect him to come back the same."

I snort derisively. "No, I suppose not. But trading one battlefield for another seems a bit extreme, don't you think?"

Marcus leans forward, his expression hardening. "You have no idea what he's seen, what he's been through."

"Enlighten me," I challenge, crossing my arms defiantly.

My fork scrapes against the porcelain plate, the shrill sound echoing the discordant symphony in my head. Each bite of the perfectly seared scallops feels like ash in my mouth. Across the table, Wyatt and Marcus exchange uneasy glances, their forced smiles a flimsy veil for the growing tension.

"He's watched friends die," Marcus says, his voice thick with a grief I couldn't begin to comprehend. "Held dying children in his arms."

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