Page 18 of The Ache That Stayed

Mask. Mouth. Smoke.

Seatbelt click.

Warmth.

Sleep.

My body felt like it had lived through an ordeal my brain hadn’t been invited to remember.

The next two days were almost normal, blurring into routine. Work at the manor. Decisions made on muscle memory while my mind drifted elsewhere. Calls with my team in Mumbai. A quick call with Sahil for emails, deadlines. The steady rhythm of a life that looked controlled from the outside.

But underneath, unease lingered. Like a note slightly out of tune.

One night, when I walked back into the cottage, I paused just inside the door. The air smelled different.

Not strong enough to hit immediately. Just lingering beneath the cold air drifting through the open windows.

Smoke. Musk.

Like someone had left traces of themselves behind and thought opening a few windows would be enough to hide it.

The feeling settled low beneath my ribs before my mind could explain it away. I told myself it was nothing. Old wood. Draft. Weather.

I didn’t check the locks again. I didn’t look for anything out of place. I didn’t want to know.

My calls with Marcello stayed the same—warm, steady, familiar. He told me about the kids. About Romano refusing to sleep unless he held one of my scarves. About Kyra correcting everyone’s pronunciation of “charcuterie” like she’d invented the word herself.

His voice grounded me in things that made sense. I let it.

I told him I missed him. More than usual. The words slipped out before I could edit them. He said he’d visit over the weekend. Not the kids. Just him.

Relief and guilt tangled low in my stomach. Hearing Romano in the background almost broke me. I swallowed it down and told him to kiss them both for me.

After we hung up, the cottage felt bigger. Quieter. Like something was waiting for me to notice it.

I slept maybe an hour or two before a sound pulled me from the dark. My eyes snapped open. At first, I lay still, listening, my brain thick with sleep. A clink. A soft scrape. Movement from the kitchen down the hall. My pulse kicked into my throat.

I slid out of bed slowly, heart thudding, feet silent in socks against cold wood. Every step measured—old survival muscle memory waking up before thought.

My oversized tee brushed my thighs. My shorts rode slightly higher with each careful step, but my eyes remained sharp despite sleep.

The air smelled different again. Smoke. Musk. And sweat mixed with something thick and male that made my pulse spike in warning.

I moved down the hallway. The kitchen light was on.

And there—

A man stood at the counter, his back to me.

Broad. Muscles shifting beneath a black tee stretched tight as he moved, controlled, unhurried. Ink crept from the collar of his shirt up his neck, disappearing into shadow. Black jeans slung low on his narrow hips. His hair was messy—like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

Boots and jacket lay on the floor forgotten. Like he planned to stay.

My breath went shallow.

I reached for the knife block slowly, silently, and pulled one free. The blade felt solid in my hand, grip tightening around the handle until my fingers ached.

I stepped closer. Closer. Reducing the distance between us one silent step at a time. I pressed the tip of the blade to the side of his neck. Close enough to feel heat. Close enough to feel pulse.