As I leaned against the doorframe, watching Grace move gracefully around the kitchen, a strange sense of contentment washed over me. She was a vision, her hair tied up, sleeves rolled, chopping vegetables with ease as she prepped what looked like an entire feast. The kitchen, which had once felt cold and sterile, was now filled with the aromas of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh herbs. She was cooking up a storm, pots bubbling on the stove and trays lined with food for me and my men.
Grace seemed comfortable now, and the sight of her in my home, moving through this space like it belonged to her, stirred something in me. The fact that she came back willingly, even after I handed her the keys to my Mustang, solidified it—she knew her place now. She wasn’t just some prisoner. She was mine.
I sm
