Chapter 40 40
STEVE POV
I closed my eyes and inhaled her—deeply and slowly.
Freya smelled like vanilla from whatever lotion she always wore and that faint warm sweetness that was just her. My arms tightened around her waist more, pulling her flush against my chest until there was no space left between us.
For ten years, this day has been my undoing. A day that was supposed to be a celebration of birth, ten years ago, turned into a day of ash and silence—my mom's death. Every year on this date, I shatter. I come here to let the pieces fall where they may, away from the world, away from the life I’ve built.
And every anniversary has always been the same; I came here to sit in the wreckage alone.
Until tonight.
Freya shifted slightly in my hold. She pulled back just enough to look up at me—those big, soft eyes searching my face.
I looked back at her.
God, the innocence of her. The way she stood so close, it was like looking at a different species. She looked so damn innocent—so clean. Having her this close has always been a special kind of torture for me—it woke something vicious and protective at the same time. Even in this grief-soaked night, the second she pressed closer, I felt the fight start again inside my chest: the need to ruin her and the need to shield her, warring like always.
“Just tell me anything…” she said quietly, breaking into my thoughts.
I looked down at her, and she was blinking repeatedly—those long lashes fluttering, innocent and unsure, struggling to find the right words.
“I mean… I can’t think of anything, but tell me anything—what do you need that can be of help? For me to comfort you… I just… I just…”
“Anything?” I rasped. The word felt jagged in my throat.
She nodded fast, but her body stiffened—just a little—like she was suddenly afraid of what “anything” might mean coming from me.
Funny. I was afraid too. Afraid that what I wanted right now wasn’t something a normal man would ask for in a moment of grieving like this.
A normal man…
But I’m not.
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. My eyes drifted past her shoulder, back into the dim living room. To my mother's face on the table. —smiling the way she used to.
“She’s here,” I said quietly—in Russian.
Freya’s gaze followed mine. She clearly didn’t understand the words, but she felt the shift. Her brows drew together, confused, curious.
I switched back to English, voice rough.
“The one I told you about… is here.”
Yes. I told her about Freya. I told my ghost mom. The woman who should’ve turned sixty-two today if the road hadn’t been wet and the other driver hadn’t been drunk.
I kept staring at the frame. While other words came out in Russian again, low, almost private—like I was talking directly to her.
“Я увидел её, мама… и всё изменилось. Она моя. Полностью моя. Никто никогда не смотрел на меня так, как она. ………….
(When I laid eyes on her, Mama… everything changed. I mean, I instantly want her as mine. completely mine. Mama…No one has ever looked at me the way she does. No one has ever made me feel alive, even when I want to die. I’m obsessed with her. I want to hold her, break her, protect her, and own her with every cell in my body. Sometimes I’m scared I’ll ruin her completely… but I can’t let go. She’s the only thing keeping me here, even on nights like this.)
As I speak, a cold wind suddenly swept across the porch—sharp, unexpected, carrying the salt of the ocean. The candle beside the frame flickered wildly, almost went out, then steadied.
In my head I saw it clear as day: my mother’s smile widening, soft and knowing, the way it used to when she caught me doing something reckless but human. Like she understood. Like she approved.
I smirked, the tension in my jaw finally breaking just a little.
Then I turned back to Freya. She was watching me with that same wide-eyed mix of innocence and confusion, cheeks flushed from the cold and whatever else was still humming between us.
“She’s happy to meet you,” I said in English.
Freya blinked at first. Then—slowly—a tiny, relieved smile curved her lips, like I’d just handed her the best news she’d heard all night.
“You… told her about me?” she asked, voice soft, almost shy. “I mean… You spoke in a language I don’t understand, so I’m asking if you told her about me.”
I looked down at her for a long beat.
The smirk faded into something quieter, heavier.
“Yeah,” I said. “I told her everything, my hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, my thumb stroking the skin behind her ear.
“She liked you. She always knew when someone was worth keeping.”
I watched the way she looked at me, her eyes filled with a million things she wanted to say.
But a mood spoiler crashed in as her lips parted to speak—her stomach suddenly growled with hunger…
“Fuck,” Freya muttered instantly, one hand flying to her belly as if she could physically muffle it. Her cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed pink. She turned her face away from me fast. “Oh my God… sorry. I—I didn’t eat anything today. I just… forgot.”
She looked so small right then—cute. Ridiculously cute. The way she looked embarrassed made me want to laugh and pull her closer at the same time.
I smirked. Couldn’t help it.
The sound slipped out low and rough, more breath than actual laugh. She must have heard it because her shoulders stiffened even more.
“Don’t,” she whispered, still looking away, voice tiny. “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” I said. My smirk widened despite myself.
I watched her fidget for another second—watched the way she bit the inside of her cheek, the way her lashes fluttered like she was trying to will the ground to open up and take her. It was adorable.
I reached out, caught her wrist gently, and tugged her hand away from her stomach. She resisted for half a heartbeat, then let me pull her forward.
“Come on,” I muttered. “Inside. You’re eating.”
She stumbled after me as I dragged her through the doorway. As I entered the living room, I didn’t look at my mother's photo this time. I didn't need to. She was still smiling in my head.
As we walked, a thought flashed through my head. Today.
Today was supposed to be a big day for Luna. the whole weekend of "Mommy-and-Luna" time I’d planned to give them while I rotted away in this house.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself. “I’m sorry, little girl. Uncle Hulk owes you one for keeping Mama away.”
Uncle Hulk—
The nickname slipped out easily—
I felt the corner of my mouth twitch upward.
I’d fought that stupid name for weeks. But somewhere between the tiny fists grabbing my fingers and the way she looked up at me like I was some kind of superhero instead of the monster I knew I was… it stuck.
And now here I was, smiling about it in the middle of my own personal hell.
Freya tilted her head, catching the tail end of my murmur. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said…