Page 31 of Only Mine
My phone screen shows 9:17 p.m. Hours to go. Hours of waiting for the sound of tires on gravel, for the heavy tread of his boots on the porch, for the explosion I know is coming.
I find the familiar spot on my left shoulder, tracing the raised skin through my T-shirt. The urge to scratch, to pull, isalmost overwhelming. I curl my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms instead.
Breathe. Just breathe.
To give myself something to do, I clean the kitchen, wiping away stray bits of herbs and cheese, the mundane task a welcome distraction. But once the counters are clean and the dishwasher is humming, there’s nothing left to do but wait.
I get up, pace the room, straightening pillows that don’t need straightening, adjusting picture frames on the mantelpiece. Photos of Ivy, laughing. Photos of Saint and Ivy, with him looking softer and younger.
I pace, check the time, try to read, fail. Anxiety coils tighter and tighter in my stomach. Every creak of the house sounds like Saint returning.
Finally, headlights sweep across the guesthouse window. It’s 2:17 a.m. My breath catches.
I watch from the window as he parks the sleek gray Jaguar he drove this morning next to the Range Rover. He gets out slowly, his weariness evident even from a distance. He runs a hand through his hair, then stops dead, his gaze fixed on the front of the SUV.
Even in the low porch light, I see his posture change. He goes utterly still for a second, then stalks toward the Range Rover, his movements jerky and unnatural.
He drops to a crouch, examining the dent.
I should go out there. I should explain. But fear roots me to the spot.
He straightens abruptly and strides toward the main house, slamming the door open so hard it bangs against the wall.
“Wrenley!” His voice cracks through the house, sharp and jagged.
It’s not anger. It’s something deeper and more intrinsic.
My feet finally move, carrying me out of the living room and into the foyer.
I find him at the bottom of the staircase, his face pale, eyes wild. He hasn’t even taken off his jacket.
“The car,” he grits out, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “What happened to the car?”
“Saint, I?—”
“Where’s Ivy?” He cuts me off, his voice dangerously unsteady. “Is she alright? Did something happen?”
He pushes past me, heading up.
“She’s fine! Saint, she’s asleep. Nothing happened to her.”
I hurry after him.
“It was just a tiny fender bender. Barely a scratch. Everyone is okay.”
He ignores me, taking the stairs two at a time.
Saint bursts into Ivy’s room. I follow, hovering in the doorway, heart pounding.
He goes straight to her bed, his hand hovering over her small sleeping form, checking her breathing. Saint smooths her hair back from her face, his touch gentle, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. He sinks onto the edge of her bed, burying his face in his hands for a moment. The tension radiating off him is suffocating.
When he looks up, his eyes find mine in the dim light filtering from the hallway. The sheer terror in them steals my breath.
It’s then I realize it’s not about the car. It was never about the car.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me, the accusation, the fear, the unprocessed grief of three years ago laid bare in his gaze.
Then he turns back to Ivy, pulling her blanket higher around her shoulders.
