Whatever it is, I have found it. I know this, from deep, deep down inside. Where Ryan has started a fire, ignited a spark, and begun to thaw me out.
And for him?
I searched his face again, looking deep into his eyes. I could have asked him. But then I didn't really need to, he'd already said all he needed to say.
Because there's no one else I'd rather be with. No one else I'd want to walk this path with. No one else who fills the cold emptiness inside me, replacing it with heat and sunshine and a bright future.
"Yes," I said, making him raise his eyebrows in slight confusion. Having obviously not kept up with my tumbling train of thoughts. "I understand," I added.
"You do, do you?" he said with a return of his usual smirk.
Yeah, I did. Ryan understood what I was going through, because he'd been through it too.
And I understood what he needed in order to survive, to stay alive with those memories, to not drown in an ice filled Arctic Sea.
And I was determined to spend the rest of my life ensuring he got it. Ensuring he got exactly what he needed, just like he was giving me.
Chapter 25
Show Me
Ryan wore those skin-tight stretchy material boxer shorts, the ones that show off every curve and bulge in enticing detail. I've always held a secret favouritism for those. Loose satin or silk boxers might look sexy, but give me detail any day. You don't get creases in form-fitting elasticised t-shirt material trunks.
Yeah, I liked trunks on a man.
He was walking back into the bedroom, after going to the kitchen to grab us a drink, in nothing but his navy trunks. Two glasses of sparkling water in his hands and a smirk gracing his lips. I may have been staring at his package.
Well, it was on skin-tight enticing display.
He leaned over and handed me one of the glasses and then slipped into bed beside me, taking a sip from his own. I just watched him, my glass halfway to my lips, my eyes unable to look away. He'd recovered well from our shower conversation, pulling that masculine nonchalance back on like an old worn shirt. I knew he still suffered being here; how could he not? But a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, I think. Sharing that part of his history with me, uncovering another reason why we fit together so well.
But rather than hash over what had already been done to death enough for one night, I asked, "What's our plan? How long are we staying here?"
He let a slow, purposeful breath out.
"I want to read more of the ledger," he admitted. "Make sure we know what exactly we're handing over."
I took a sip of my water to hide the sudden tremble in my fingers. It had been a few years since I last read that blasted book, but I remember it all in crystal clear detail. Every single page. I didn't need a refresher course in Roan McLaren Evilness 101.
"OK," I managed to say.
His hand snaked out and grasped mine from in my lap, his fingers squeezing reassuringly.
"I know this is hard, Marie. But we need to be prepared. And the only way I can assure that, is by making myself familiar with that book."
I nodded. Took another sip of water. Stared at the bedspread across my legs.
Ryan sighed.
"This will pass, you know," he said softly.
I turned my head to look at him. He was staring off in the distance, way past the far bedroom wall.
Neither of us were having fun being here, were we?
I squeezed his hand back. His head swung to the side, bringing intense brown eyes to my face. He smiled. It brightened the whole damn room, that one simple smile.
"It will pass," I semi-repeated his words back to him.
"You probably think I'm crazy keeping this place. But he took everything else of hers. By the time I made it back here, there was nothing personal left. I have no idea what he did with her things, it was as if he burned any trace of her from his life."
"She didn't die here?"
He shook his head. I let a small breath of air out. Thank God for that.
"But this was where I always met her, where we had morning tea and talked. This was her house, even if it was in his name. He bought it for her, so she was always available when he wanted her to be." A small, agony-filled sound escaped his lips. "He was about to move a new lover into it when I first told him I knew."
I didn't know what to say to that. Five years, he said it took, to gather enough evidence to convict his mother's murderer. Just when did Ryan let the man know he knew?
"He sold it after that," he whispered. "Cut his losses, before it could be used as evidence against him. It'd had two owners by the time I bought it and placed it in the trust. Despite the house never legally being hers, she'd loved it. She'd taken pride in it. Every corner, every nook, was all her. She loved the garden and the view out to sea. We spent hours, over the course of our fairly brief acquaintance, talking while taking in that scene. It was what I remembered best about her. This fucking house. That fucking view. When I couldn't find anything of hers to keep as a memento, I bought the whole damn thing."