Page 133 of Dublin Beast

“Thank you,” Riya says softly. “For bringing him back from the dark. We’ve missed him. We’ve prayed for him. And now…” She draws back, brushing Harper’s hair behind her ear. “He’s here. Whole again.”

Harper blinks. “It’s… it’s really nice to meet you.”

Riya loops an arm through hers like they’re already family. “Come meet Ashwin. We will have dinner.”

Harper shoots me a look as she’s whisked away, but I just grin and follow. “Welcome to Riya’s world. Resistance is futile.”

The kitchen is a blur of color and motion—steam rising from silver pots, copper pans clanging, the sizzle of garlic hitting hot oil. A young cook stirs a pot at the back while Ashwin hovers over the grill, flipping skewers of paneer and lamb with expert flicks of his wrist.

He looks up as we enter and grins, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. He wipes his hands and claps me on the back before nodding to Harper. “And this must be her, yes? The one with fire in her heart.”

Harper’s eyes widen.

I laugh, grinning like a lovesick fool. “This is her.”

Ashwin grins and turns to one of his staff. “Nikhil, you’re in charge for the next hour. If anything catches fire, call the fire brigade—not me.”

Nikhil laughs and salutes with his ladle.

Ashwin loads a tray with dishes—butter chicken, saag paneer, basmati rice, two stacks of naan, and some spiced chickpeas that I know are going to ruin Harper in the best way.

Riya sets a tall silver teapot and a plate of sweet ladoo on a second tray and I take it from her before she guides us toward the back stairwell. “Come. We’ll share a meal and get to know our new daughter.”

* * *

The apartment above the restaurant is a world away from the bustle below. Quiet. Cozy. Lined with warm colors and soft textiles. The scent of spice lives in the walls and so does the memory of laughter.

Family photos are tucked into every surface—frames arranged on floating shelves, mantels, even strung on a string of fairy lights near the window.

Harper slows as we step inside, her eyes drawn to the display along the hallway. I follow her gaze and feel the familiar ache rise in my chest.

Yasmine.

In one, she’s barefoot in the garden, henna-stained fingers tangled in her hair. In another, she’s laughing in the backseat of my truck, mid-summer, eyes squinting at the camera I held. There are dozens more—her in graduation robes, hugging her parents, dancing at a wedding.

And me, in many of them. A younger, lighter version of myself.

Harper steps closer, eyes soft. “She was so beautiful.”

“She was,” I agree.

She looks over her shoulder at me. “And so were you. Look at this guy.”

I swallow hard. This is why I love her. Why she owns every last breath in my lungs.

She’s never been threatened by Yasmine’s ghost.

She’s never tried to erase her.

She’s never made me feel like I had to lock part of myself away.

Instead, she smiles at the girl who held my heart before her, and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together.

After everything I’ve done, I know I don’t deserve this woman. But I’ll spend every day of forever making sure she knows I see her. That I’m thankful.

Before I can say anything, Ashwin claps his hands and gestures to the table. “Come. Let’s eat.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN

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