Semua Bab Reclaiming Aria : Bab 71 - Bab 80

The morning is soft and gold-drenched, sunlight slipping through gauzy curtains like a secret. It spills over the plush hotel sheets, across the pale cream walls, and glows against the glass vases of fresh roses on the side table—Kade’s doing, of course. He’d planned everything. The room itself is spacious and intimate. Hardwood floors, velvet armchairs, a king-sized bed that looks properly wrecked. The air smells like lavender and skin. On the dresser, there’s a sleek leather overnight bag with Aria’s name on the tag—Sloane’s planning, no doubt. There’s even chocolate truffles resting on a silver tray near the coffee bar, unopened, forgotten in the haze of everything they did the night before. And what a night it was. Three rounds. Three different versions of pleasure. Kade had been a man possessed. Focused. Reverent. Like touching her was his life’s work, like her body was a story only he had the right to read—over and over again. Kades still curled around her like she’s th

The fluorescent hospital lights buzz like dying insects overhead—cold, white, and merciless. It’s late, the air stale with too much bleach and not enough comfort. Nurses move like ghosts, hushed and efficient, their footsteps swallowed by the scratchy floors and tired midnight silence.By Saturday evening, the chaos had dulled to a quiet hum. Tanya was resting, the baby swaddled and sleeping, and most of the town’s whispers had gone home to brew.Sloane had left earlier—got a few hours of sleep, changed into something sharp, and returned with a face full of war paint and a fresh layer of control. Sloane hasn’t moved in hours. She’s sitting on the edge of one of those god-awful vinyl chairs in the maternity wing waiting area, legs crossed, one heel swinging slow and deliberate. Her coffee cup rests in her hand, perfectly upright, not a single sip taken. It’s long gone cold—but her grip? Ice cold. Her coat is draped over her lap like a throne of black wool. Hair curled to perfection

The smell hits her before the door even opens. Warm formula. Bleach. Vanilla candle wax trying its damnedest to mask what exhaustion really smells like. Sloane presses her lips together, heels clicking against Mason’s tile like a countdown. She’s only here for a check-in, a drop-by, a quick “how are things?” But already, the air feels… wrong. Tanya answers with the baby in her arms. Her skin’s dull, eyes rimmed in tired red, robe slipping off one shoulder. “Sloane,” she breathes like it’s a lifeline. Sloane gives her a quick once-over. “You look like hell.” “I feel like hell.” Tanya shifts the baby to her other hip. “She won’t stop crying unless I walk.” “Where’s Mason?” Tanya’s lips tighten. “In the garage. Pretending to fix something.” Figures. Sloane steps inside. The baby’s soft hiccuping mews echo across the living room like guilt. Tanya lowers her voice. “I don’t know what’s going on with him,” she murmurs. “But it’s not good. Sometimes I catch him just… standing in he

Her phone lights up again—Kade. Mason doesn’t even need to see the screen to know it’s him. The glow reflects in her smile before she even reads the damn message. Then she giggles. Giggles. “God, you’re such a dork,” she murmurs, thumbing a reply with lazy affection, body relaxed, tone dipped in sweetness like it’s meant for soft bedsheets and bare skin. Something inside Mason snaps. He shoves off the tree, stumbling back into the brush behind her father’s property. The moon’s hanging low, swollen and yellow, casting long shadows across the fields. His breath fogs in the air, sharp with rage. He throws a rock—hard—at the rusted fence post near the property line. It hits with a clang that echoes. His knuckles slam into the side of his car. A muffled grunt escapes his throat. He watches her—untouched by the world, barefoot in the grass, humming under her breath as she starts to braid her hair loosely over her shoulder. The same hair he used to wrap around his hand. The same mo

Hollows farmers Market—smells like cinnamon candles, fried chicken, and desperation. It’s half past six and the place is humming with soft fluorescents and nosy small-town chatter. The aisles are narrow. Shelves stuffed. Someone’s kid is screaming three rows down about cereal, but I don’t give a damn. Aria’s tucked under my arm like she belongs there—like she’s always been mine. Her hair’s still damp from the shower, curls clinging to her neck, and she’s wearing my old navy flannel like it’s a dress. Her legs bare. And all I want to do is drag her back to the ranch and make her forget every movie we came here to grab. She hums and jabs me with her elbow as we pass the endcap loaded with candy and discount DVDs. “I’m not watching another one of your spaghetti westerns, cowboy. I want explosions. Ridiculous car chases. Shirtless actors. Jason Momoa, preferably.” I scoff, reaching for the kettle corn. “You already got a shirtless man, princess.” She gives me a long, obviousl