Page 83 of Stolen Harmony

“You're trying to separate guilt from curiosity,” she said gently, “but they can coexist. Grief is complex, and so is desire. One doesn't cancel out the other.”

“So what does that make me?”

“Human.” Her smile was warm, understanding. “This is your discovery to make, Elias. No one else gets to define it for you. Not society, not your past, not even your guilt about Elaine.”

My throat worked around words that felt too big to swallow. “So what do I do?”

“Be honest with yourself first. Then, when you're ready, be honestwith him.”

“And if being honest destroys everything?”

“And if not being honest destroys you?”

I found myself without an answer that didn't involve some form of destruction. Maybe that was the point. Maybe some truths were worth the wreckage they caused.

I left her office with her words lodged under my ribs like broken glass, feeling lighter and more unsettled at the same time. The afternoon air was crisp with the promise of spring, but there was still enough winter left to make my breath visible in small puffs that dissipated almost immediately.

My truck carried me through Harbor's End's quiet streets without any conscious decision on my part. I told myself I was just driving, just thinking, just processing the conversation I'd had with Dr. Fields. But when I found myself parked outside the bookstore where Rowan lived, I had to admit I'd been lying to myself about my intentions.

The street smelled faintly of wet pavement and brewing coffee from the café across the road. Normal, everyday scents that should have grounded me but instead felt surreal, like I was experiencing the world through someone else's senses.

That's when I spotted movement at the front steps of Rowan's building.

Victor, stepping out of the narrow doorway in a tailored coat that probably cost more than most people in Harbor's End made in a month. His politician's smile was already in place, that practiced expression of satisfaction that made my blood run cold.

I was out of the truck and moving before conscious thought could intervene, Max leaping out behind me with the instinctive alertness of a dog who sensed his owner's tension. Iintercepted Victor halfway down the steps, Max positioning himself at my side, his hackles slightly raised.

“What are you doing here?”

Victor's eyes flicked to Max. “Still traveling with that mutt, I see.”

“Answer the question.”

“Visiting someone,” he replied smoothly, adjusting his coat with movements that were too controlled to be casual. “Just being friendly to the neighborhood. Harbor's End's such a small community, don't you think? Everyone should get to know each other.”

Max let out a low rumble, barely audible but enough to make Victor take a half-step back. Dogs were excellent judges of character, and Max had never liked Victor, not even as a puppy.

The words were innocent enough, but the tone underneath them made my skin crawl. There was no direct threat in what he said, but the implication hung in the space between us like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from him,” I said, my voice low enough to carry menace.

“Stay away from who?” Victor's expression was all manufactured innocence. “I have no idea who you're talking about.”

“Bullshit.”

“Such language, brother.” He tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “But then again, you always were the crude one in the family.”

I watched him walk away, his footsteps echoing off the wet pavement with the deliberate rhythm of someone who knew exactly how much damage he'd just caused. My gut tightened with the certainty that this hadn't been a casual visit, that Victor's presence here meant nothing good for anyone involved.

Inside the building, the air smelled faintly of damp woodand industrial detergent. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs with something that might have been fear or anticipation or both.

I knocked on Rowan's door, the sound echoing in the narrow hallway like gunshots.

It swung open to reveal Rowan, and my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. He was half-dressed, wearing jeans that hung low on his hips and nothing else, his hair damp with what looked like sweat or shower water. Dark strands clung to his forehead, and there were shadows under his eyes.

I took in the sight longer than I should have, my eyes tracing the line of his collarbone, the lean muscle of his chest, the way the afternoon light from his window painted golden stripes across his skin. He was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache, young and alive and absolutely forbidden.

“You coming in?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.