Page 127 of Defensive Desire

I wake with the first hint of dawn painting the sky outside our cabin window. Emma's still asleep, curled against my chest.

The old wooden beams of this traditional Finnish mökki creak gently as wind whispers across the frozen lake outside. I hold Emma closer, drinking in the scent of her hair and the way her body fits perfectly against mine.

A week in Finland, and I still can't believe we're here.

That, after all those years of hearing about it from my mother, of dreaming about visiting after her death… I made it.Wemade it.

My mother's village looks exactly like the pictures she showed me as a kid. Small stone cottages with red roofs, smoke curling from chimneys, the Baltic Sea frozen at the edges where it meets the shore.

I've spent years imagining this place, but seeing it through Emma's eyes has made it more real than any memory.

Emma stirs against me, mumbling something into my chest before she lifts her head. Her hair is wild, framing her face in a way that makes my heart stutter. The morning light catches her engagement ring, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the cabin walls.

"Morning, gorgeous," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Mmm." She stretches, cat-like and perfect. "What time is it?"

"Still early. Go back to sleep."

She shakes her head, curling her fingers against my chest. "No way. Not wasting a single Finnish minute."

I chuckle, stroking her hair.

Every day here has been like this. Her soaking up every experience, sketching in that leather-bound journal she brings everywhere, asking locals a thousand questions about my mother's hometown.

"Fine. I'll make breakfast."

Her eyes widen in horror. "You? In a kitchen? Should I call the fire department now or wait for actual flames?"

I roll my eyes, already sliding from beneath the heavy down comforter. "Keep it up, Coffee Witch, and you're getting cold pulla."

"As if you'd ever serve cold food." She smirks, pulling the blanket to her chin, watching me cross the room. "Your Mama Kane would haunt you forever."

She's right, of course.

I pull the cardamom-scented pulla bread from the oven and set the coffee brewing. The Finnish make it strong enough to wake the dead, just like Mom used to make.

Soon, Emma appears in the kitchen doorway wearing my flannel shirt and nothing else, those long legs making my mouth go dry.

"Haista sinä," I say, testing her. We've been working on her Finnish all week.

She narrows her eyes. "You just told me to smell you, not smell this. Your verb conjugation is terrible."

I laugh, surprised. "Who's been teaching you behind my back?"

"The old lady at the bakery," Emma smiles, sneaking a piece of warm bread. "She says your Finnish is too formal. She's been giving me the good stuff while you chop wood with her husband."

I pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her waist. "The good stuff, huh?"

"Mmhmm." She rises on tiptoes, brushing her lips against mine. "And she says I'm too good for you."

"Smart woman," I agree, kissing her properly.

After breakfast, Emma brings out her travel journal, the pages covered in sketches of the village, the frozen harbor, the cottage where my mother was born.

Each drawing captures something I missed when we visited, that's why I love looking back on it every night. Emma sees things I don't. Like the way light plays on old stone, how smoke curls against gray sky, the faces of villagers who remember the Kane family name.

"This one's my favorite," she says, showing me a drawing of an old fisherman mending nets. "He told me stories about your grandfather's boat."