Page 105 of Shadow Of Sin

“Not the only thing about me that’s concerning, I’m sure.”

I chuckle. “Noted.”

I put the book back and look around. The whole place is just…him. Quiet and organized down to the last-minute detail. But the cabin isn’t stark and cold and vacant…all the things I expected it to be. There’s something underneath all the precision that I didn’t expect. A warmth I can’t explain or pinpoint, but just feel.

I walk around, the worn hardwood floors creaking under my feet.

“How long have you had this place?” I ask.

“Three years. I bought it with cash so there wouldn’t be a mortgage or paper trail. Ronan doesn’t even know the address.”

“Ronan doesn’t know?”

“Nobody knows. That’s the point.” He sets our bags down and looks at me. “You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here.”

My mind trips back to the two rockers outside the front door. This man who hides behind computer screens and cereal boxes and heavy metal band t-shirts just brought me to the one place on earth that’s entirely his. The place nobody else has ever seen. The place where Wolfe Molloy exists without an audience.

“Show me the rest,” I say, reaching for his hand.

He walks me down the short hallway to the bedroom. A queen bed with a simple frame sits in the center. It’s covered with a quilt, one that looks to be handmade. I lean down and run my palm over the colorful patchwork design of faded blues and greens and a deep burgundy that’s worn soft from years of use. The stitching is uneven in places. It’s not perfect, but it’s easily the most beautiful thing in the cabin.

“Where did this come from?” I ask, looking up at him.

“My mother made it.”

My hand stills on the fabric. “Your mom.”

“Yeah. Before she got sick. She made one for each of us. Ronan’s is blue. Lochlan’s is gray. Cillian’s is green. Mine was the last one she finished.” He touches the edge where the burgundy meets a faded blue square. “She ran out of the burgundy, so she switched to whatever she had left from the others. That’s why the colors don’t match at the end.” His voice is thick, his eyes suddenly sad.

“Wolfe.” I straighten up and run my hand down his arm. His pained blue eyes settle on my face.

“She gave it to me about a month before she died. I was thirteen. She sat on my bed and told me that the colors didn’t match, but that was the point because things don’t have to be perfect to keep you warm.”

My throat tightens so hard I can barely breathe. His voice is flat, emotionless, unlike his expression.

“Do your brothers still have theirs?” I ask.

“I don’t know. We don’t really talk about her.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe.” He moves past me toward the bathroom like the conversation is over, and I let him go because I know what it costs him to say things like that, and I’m not going to make him pay twice.

The back porch has two chairs and a view of nothing but trees. I stop in the doorway because I can’t resist the urge to ask about them.

“Two chairs,” I say.

He turns. “What?”

“You said nobody has ever been here. But you bought two chairs.”

He looks at the porch. Then back at me. His thumb taps once against his thigh.

“I bought them three years ago,” he says. “I don’t know why.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He doesn’t answer. But the tapping stops and his expression loosens. It’s not sad anymore. And my heart floats up a little higher in my chest.