Page 69 of Dual
The sweet aromaof butter and flour fills the kitchen as I check the pie crust through the oven window. Golden brown at the edges—no soggy bottom this time. A little surge of pride rushes through me as I set the timer for the last two minutes of blind baking.
"Perfect," I whisper to myself, feeling ridiculously pleased. Six attempts and I'm finally getting somewhere with my baking skills.
Domhnall's out of town for the night with work—a quicktrip to talk to some investors in Austin—so I thought I'd try again so he could come home tomorrow to fresh baked pie.
Domhnall's kitchen—our kitchen now, I remind myself—is a baker's dream. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, marble countertops perfect for rolling out dough, and more gadgets than I could ever use. When I first moved in, I was intimidated by all of it. Now it feels like mine.
I run my fingers over the smooth countertop, smiling at the flour dusting everything. Domhnall doesn't care about the mess. "Kitchens are for cooking, not looking at," he told me once when I apologized for the disaster I'd made attempting croissants. He'd kissed the flour off my nose and told me he loved seeing me happy more than he cared about clean counters.
I'm not ashamed to admit I've been trying to be the perfect wife-to-be. After all we've been through, Domhnall deserves that much—a normal life with someone who can make a decent pie, plan a beautiful wedding, and maybe even start a family soon. Everything I never had growing up suddenly feels within reach.
Our wedding binder sits on the island, thick with fabric swatches, venue photos, and flower arrangements. May seems both impossibly far away and rushing toward us. I flip through it sometimes just to remind myself it's real. I'm getting married. To Domhnall. The boy I loved who became the man who saved me, who held on when anyone else would have let go.
The timer beeps. I slide on the oven mitts—these adorableruffled ones Domhnall bought me after my third baking disaster when I burned my fingers—and pull out the crust. I lift out the baking paper and beans for the blind bake and admire the crust. It's beautiful. The pie will be magazine-worthy with its fluted edges.
"Just needs filling," I murmur, setting it on the cooling rack.
I already have the spices measured out—cinnamon, nutmeg, and a pinch of cardamom because Domhnall likes it that way. It's the little things I'm learning about him, collecting like precious stones. He likes cardamom in his apple pie and two sugars in his coffee. He sleeps on his stomach with one arm always reaching for me. He sings in the shower when he thinks I can't hear him.
I glance at my phone. My Instacart order with the fresh Honeycrisp apples I need should be here any minute. I've been experimenting with different varieties, and Domhnall seemed to really like the tartness of the Honeycrisps in last week's attempt (even though that crust was definitely underbaked).
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror—flour on my cheek, hair pulled back in a messy bun—and shrug. The delivery person won't care. Besides, there's something thrilling about being so comfortable in my own home, in my own skin.
Dr. Resnick worked a miracle in more ways than one.
Three sessions with him changed everything. I was desperate when I sought him out, tired of the constant switching,tired of sharing my body and feeling like a passenger in my own life. Dr. Ezra had been cautious, always urging patience. But patience wasn't getting me anywhere.
"Integration is possible," Dr. Resnick had told me during our first session, "but it requires you to accept all parts of yourself—even the parts you've been afraid to face."
The hypnotherapy was intense. Terrifying, at times. He took me deep into my own mind, to the places where the fractures began. He made me confront memories I'd buried, feelings I'd denied. I met Mads there, not as an intruder but as a part of me that had been protecting me all along. My anger. My survival instinct. My desire.
He told me I was supposed to talk to her and practice radical acceptance, face to face with all of myself.
I may have cheated a little. I simply didn't have time for that.
In the dark place was the box, like always. Somehow, I was in control and Mads was weaker—maybe because of the words Dr. Resnick had said when he put me under: "You are the primary and youarein control. You do not have to be afraid."
So I?—
I shoved Mads in the box and locked it, then threw away the key.
And... it worked.
Now, for the first time in years, I feel whole. Not perfect—there are still moments when I feel the pull, the urge to slip away. But I stay present. I breathe through it. I remain.
And now, because I faced her and stayed in control, I have courage.Ican be the strong one now.
I never told Domhnall why we would switch before—why Mads would take over whenever things got intimate. I couldn't put it into words then, but now I understand. It's that moment when I feel him—hiscock—pressing against me.
And it is true terror. Like I can't even describe.
But it's also excitement.
The adrenaline response used to flip me over to Mads instantly. It's a similar feeling to being in danger. But it's not danger. Once I push past the terror, it's so...
I lean my hip against the back of the couch as memories of last night flood my mind: Domhnall's weight pressing me into the mattress, his hands pinning my wrists, the delicious burn as he stretched me open. The way he whispered in my ear, filthy promises that made me shiver and arch beneath him.
He'd taken me against the kitchen counter yesterday, rough and demanding in a way he never would have dared before. I'd told him not to hold back, and God, he didn't. I touch my throat, feeling the tender spots where his fingers pressed, where his teeth marked me. The bruises on my hips where he'd gripped me tight enough to leave impressions of his fingertips.
