Page 142 of Dual
I take one step forward, then another. Domhnall makes a sound of protest, but I ignore him. This is my brother. Mybaby brother I thought was dead and who I mourned for twenty years.
“I’m tired too,” I tell him, tears streaming down my face. “I’m tired of running. Of fighting. Of losing everyone I love.” I’m close enough to touch him now, close enough to see the tears in his own eyes. “But we don’t have to lose each other. Not again.”
His hand opens, and the gun falls to the ground with a clatter that sounds like the end of something. Or maybe the beginning.
“Anna,” he says, and then he’s crying, really crying, and I’m pulling him into my arms like he’s three years old again and scared of the dark. We were both so scared of the dark.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, holding him tight as Isaak’s men move in to secure the weapon, as Domhnall finally lowers his own gun. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
“We’ve got him,”Madison corrects softly in my mind.“We’ve got our brother back.”
And standing there in the middle of Klyde Warren Park, surrounded by security and gawking bystanders, holding my brother for the first time in twenty years, I finally understand what it means to be whole.
Not perfect. Not undamaged.
But complete, with all my broken pieces and fractured selves and lost family members finally, finally coming home.
Domhnall’s hand finds my shoulder, warm and steady andreal.
“Let’s go home,” he says quietly. “All of us. Connor’s waiting.”
And we do. We go home. Together.
FORTY-THREE
February
ANNA
The evening lightfilters through our bedroom windows, casting everything in a golden and amber glow. Connor is finally asleep—really asleep, not that fake sleep that lasts exactly twenty minutes—and the house feels wrapped in a rare, precious quiet.
Domhnall stands at the dresser, removing his cufflinks with those precise movements I’ve watched a thousand times. His shoulders are tense from another long day, the weight of responsibility he carries so naturallybut never easily. When he catches my reflection watching him in the mirror, his mouth curves into that soft smile reserved just for me.
“Come here,” I whisper, and there’s something in my voice that makes his hands still and his eyes darken with interest.
He turns, taking in the sight of me curled on our bed in the silk nightgown he bought me for my birthday—the ivory one that makes my skin look like moonlight. The way he looks at me, even after all this time, still makes my breath catch. Like I’m something precious he can’t quite believe he gets to keep.
“Anna,” he says, my name a prayer on his lips as he moves toward me.
I rise to meet him halfway, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. When I reach for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers tremble slightly. He covers my hands with his own.
“You sure, love?” His voice is rough with want but gentle with concern. “You’ve been tired lately.”
Instead of answering with words, I stretch up to kiss him, pouring everything I feel into the connection of our mouths. Love and need and the desperate gratitude that we’re here, safe and finally together. His arms come around me immediately, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest.
The kiss deepens to become something hungry and urgent. His hands find the small of my back, pressing me closer, and I can feel his heart racing against mine. When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“I need you,” I whisper against his lips. “All of you. I need to feel alive.”
Something flickers in his eyes—understanding, perhaps, or recognition. He knows what I mean. In this world of sleepless nights and endless responsibilities, sometimes we need to reconnect to who we are beneath all the roles we play. Sometimes we need to remember that we’re more than just parents and partners and protectors.
Sometimes we need to remember we’re lovers, first and always.
His hands move to the straps of my nightgown, sliding them down my shoulders with reverent slowness. The silk pools at my feet, and I stand before him bare and vulnerable and completely unashamed. The way his gaze travels over my body—possessive and tender and hungry all at once—makes heat bloom low in my belly.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his accent thickening the way it always does when he’s aroused. “So fecking beautiful.”
I help him with his shirt, my fingers tracing the familiar landscape of scars and muscle and warm skin. Each mark tells a story—some I know, some I’m still learning. The raised line across his ribs from a knife fight when he was seventeen. The burn on his shoulder from protecting me. The tiny scratches Connor’s fingernails leave when he’s fussy—the marks from learning to be a father.
