I smile politely at the priest, then tug Xavier away. He’s wooden and unresponsive, but at my tug, he ambles along like a big, friendly giant.
I swear he gets bigger. He never stopped training, and even though we’ve been together close to fifteen years, his body is the only temple I want to worship at.
When the girls cluster around us, grabbing our spare hands, I watch as Gray takes Lilith’s.
He’s so somber that it hurts my heart to see. He was close to Marco. Very close. Losing him is going to be difficult on him, especially since he isn’t close to my dad who doesn’t understand his quiet ways.
Gray and Marco used to whittle woods together, for Christ’s sake. Dad? Couldn’t sit still long enough for a commemorative portrait of him when he’d hit his last promotion.
As we silently trudge down ancient paths that had seen a million footsteps before us, old buildings and history surrounding us like we’re back in Rome—a city, I’m sad to say, we’ll never revisit—I murmur, “I like it here.”
Xavier cuts me a look, his eyes wary because he recognizes me in this mood.
“That’s handy considering we have property here,” he says dryly.
“I think we should stay a little longer.” I eye Gray’s small form, how close he is to his grandmother. Lilith is a lot older than my mom, and she’s frail. The idea of her being alone? It doesn’t sit well with me.
He cocks a brow at me. “You want to stay here?”
I shrug. “Your mother won’t do well by herself.”
“No.” His admission comes with a deep, sad sigh. He gets on better with his mother, has ever since he left the priesthood.
Only in France would a parent be so horrified for their child to become a priest.
You’d think he was admitting to being Satan’s spawn, but when he was defrocked, when we got married, she said it was the happiest day of her life.
It seems fitting that I think of that now on the saddest day of her life.
“She could come and live with us on the property.” We have a little farm here too. I like being self-sufficient, and like, even more, having people do the running around for us. I’m not a green-fingered person, but I love the open space for Xavier, and know he appreciates being outdoors.
He never really admits to it, but the farms do him good. If you asked him, he’d say he never worked the land, but it’s not true. He’s learned a lot over the years, can take over any of our workers’ positions if they get sick. He even knows how to run all the machines, and I often see him doing something that makes me shake my head—like three weeks ago when he’d had to help birth a calf—not a farmer, my ass.
“We can stay on for a while,” he rumbles, his tone dark, deep. Sadder than I’d like. He’s going to take his father’s loss hard, as is his right, but it always makes me want to fix what hurts him.
If he’s protective of me and the kids, I’m the same with him. But in this?
There’s nothing I can do except show him I love him, and show him how much I want to make things better for him.
Maybe he knows what I’m thinking because, in the shadow of the mairie, ancient with honey-colored walls and a charming clock tower that peals with the hour, he tugs me closer to him and presses a kiss to my temple.
“I’m supposed to be the fixer,” he rasps.
My smile curves freely. “I can do some fixing too. When my man needs a little patching up.”
His eyes darken at my words.
My man.
Mine.
They’re powerful for him. They hold strength, and I see them work their magic on him.
He’s only a man, but what he is, moreover, belongs to me.
That reminder grounds him, and when he nods and says, “Staying longer will be good for us,” I know I did the right thing.
Binding this man to earthly ties and cosseting him within my wings.
Love.
I never thought I’d experience it, never thought I’d feel it this strongly, but here I am.
Surrounded by it.
Sheltered by it on all angles.
On a day like today?
I need to remember that, and I need my family to remember it too.
We’ve lost one of our own, but we’ll grow tighter for it.
Xavier
Five years later
“I’m telling you, Claude is beating her.”
My brow puckers at her vehemence. “What would you have me do?”
She winces. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to do either.”
Ever since she started this little book club, I’d known it would bring trouble to our doors.
I didn’t approve of it, but I know she misses my mother who passed last year. They were always discussing books, and even though I loved my maman, it was Andrea who had dissected stories with her, who had plotted and planned with her for her new novels.
When she came to me with the idea of holding a monthly book club, I knew she wanted it, and I wasn’t going to stop her. She didn’t have to ask, for God’s sake, this place being as much hers as it is mine, but she knows I don’t like strangers on the property.
I protect what’s mine.
I don’t care that the kids are in university now, and that they aren’t vulnerable under my roof—that they’re vulnerable somewhere nearly kills me, but I won’t taint them with my fears, and want them to lead their own lives—this is my home and I make damn sure it’s secure.
When the gaggling hens arrive, I always tuck myself away in one of the sheds. The farm operation here has grown bigger ever since we moved, and we’re producing lavender at a manufacturing rate.
I’ll admit to being proud at the standard of our flowers and prouder still that they’re being used to make essential oils of the highest quality.
It’s my work, my job, and I love it.
I love being in the fields with the sky overhead, the dirt under my boots. My face blasted by the wind, the sun making me sweat wholesome sweat.
It’s my freedom.
And I want Andrea to have whatever she needs too—that’s my second job in this world.
The first being to protect us, the second to give her everything she desires, and for some damn reason, she wants a horde of cackling women to rain down on us every third Thursday to discuss some latest release.
She enjoys it, and I enjoy her energy in the run up to Thursday where she works hard on catering the small event. Making vol-au-vents and all kinds of canapés for the ladies to enjoy with far too much wine—it’s a good thing we’re walking distance from Sospel, is all I’ll say.
She’s piping cream cheese into freshly baked vol-au-vent pastries as she pleads with me, and I pop one in my mouth, humming at the heat. “That jalapeño?”
My angel nods, and peers at me under her lashes with a look that still hits me in the balls all these years later. “You like it?”
My jaw clenches because the desire to grab her hair, fist it, and draw our mouths together is fierce.
Like she knows, her breathing softens, her eyes spark, and her body changes—she moves slightly, subtly. Twisting toward me rather than the kitchen counter.
I hear squeaking brakes outside though, so while the desire to draw her to her knees and to pull out my cock is heavy, I don’t.