Sure, there was a chance that he could still run his mouth in prison. But no one was going to believe him. And, I imagined, if he got too loud, both the Lombardi and Esposito families had people on the inside to silence him.

I was free.

Saff was free.

And we could build a future together.

Even if that meant throwing out my nutmeg.

Saff - 4 weeks

I had clothes in Soren’s closet.

My toothbrush was in his drawer.

My books were piling up all over the surfaces of the apartment.

I’d all but moved in without actually moving in.

It was strange to go from ‘no back-to-backs’ to going a full week without heading back to my apartment.

Little by little, Soren’s place started to feel more like home than my own.

Each time thoughts like that rose up, there was an immediate clenching in my stomach—my old traumas trying to come to the surface.

I had to actively remind myself that I was safe, that he was safe, that there was nothing to be afraid of.

Just because I was staying at his place didn’t mean that I was giving up something. If anything, it meant I was building something better.

“Your Chinese place is fancy,” I called as I walked out of the elevator with the bag. “There weren’t any pictures on the wall behind the counter. Where are you?”

I dropped the bag on the kitchen island, then heard a slamming sound and a curse coming from upstairs.

I didn’t stop to think.

I reached into the knife drawer, drew out the biggest chef’s knife that I knew Soren kept scalpel sharp, kicked off my shoes, then rushed up the steps in my socks.

My heart was hammering as I turned away from the primary bedroom and toward the other two bedrooms.

They were both empty spaces, save for Soren’s luggage. He said he pictured a kid or two in the future, and wanted space for them.

I’d never given much thought to kids.

But I was suddenly picturing a little him walking around. The three of us cuddled up on the couch reading storybooks. Going to the zoo. The museums. Vacations to Disney. All the things neither Soren nor I had gotten in our own childhoods.

There was another slam coming from the bedroom closest to the stairs, making my stomach drop and my spine straighten.

I moved in front of the mostly closed door, took a deep breath, then threw it open with the knife raised.

“Get off him,” I yelled before I could see what was going on.

Soren, sitting on the floor among a pile of wood and tools, turned, brows pinched.

His gaze slid from my face to the knife in my hand.

A slow smile spread.

“What are you here to save me from, darlin’? The bookcases?”

“Bookcases?” I asked, lowering my arm to my side.