12. Bella

12

BELLA

W yatt's movements are swift and sure as he navigates the kitchen, browning meat and stirring a pot of simmering sauce. The smell is intoxicating. I'm sitting at the kitchen island, watching him. I can't remember the last time I've seen this many men so at ease in the kitchen. Most of my memories are of Dad trying and miserably failing to cook us meals when Mom was away, though he did make a pretty decent pea soup one day. And he was always good at tea and coffee. My first taste of caffeine happened when I was twelve, courtesy of Mom’s being gone for a week.

"Mind if I join in?" Marcus asks, stepping into the kitchen with a grin. He grabs a knife and starts chopping veggies with practiced ease.

The way they move, coordinating effortlessly, is like a dance. Wyatt grates cheese while Marcus dices tomatoes, their banter flowing as smoothly as their movements. I can't help but be impressed. It feels like I've stepped into some kind of suburban fantasy, the kind where men cook and women just sit back and enjoy the show.

"You guys do this often?" I ask, leaning on the counter.

"Every chance we get," Wyatt replies with a smile, tossing a handful of basil into the sauce. "We figured out a while back that we make a pretty good team in the kitchen."

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from them. Marcus is slicing bell peppers now, his muscles flexing under his shirt with each precise cut. They look so impossibly hot working together like this.

"You're doing okay?" Wyatt's voice breaks through my thoughts.

"Yeah," I say, giving him a small smile. "Better now. Thanks."

"Glad to hear it," he says, eyes twinkling as he stirs the sauce. "Dinner will be ready soon."

It doesn't take long before the kitchen fills with the rich aromas of spices and simmering tomatoes. My stomach growls in anticipation. The table is set, and we all sit down to a feast. It's decadent, every dish bursting with flavor. It's hard to believe they whipped this up in such a short time.

As we eat, conversation flows easily. Laughter fills the room, and for the first time in a long while, I feel genuinely happy. But then, as the meal draws to a close, I realize someone is missing.

"Where's River?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

Wyatt clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. Marcus glances at him before answering.

"He's probably having beer for dinner in the study," Marcus says, his tone dismissive. "Might sleep there too, with a bottle of whiskey and a stack of old war stories."

A pang of disappointment hits me. It's not like I miss River, but his absence is conspicuous. I wonder what he's thinking, being all alone while we're here having a good time. It's probably for the best, but goddammit, I can't be under the same roof as him and not think about him. If I'm being honest, that's all I've done.

Wyatt shifts in his seat, discomfort etched on his handsome features. "Maybe you should talk to him, Bella. About whatever it is that’s between you two."

I give him a defiant little glare. "If you so much as…"

He stops me immediately. "I'm not giving him any of your secrets. That's not my place." Marcus looks between the both of us curiously but doesn't butt in. "I'm just suggesting that you need to make the burden of carrying all this rage a little lighter."

A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can contain it. "What do I tell a man who is forever chasing ghosts?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Marcus's gaze sharpens. "You knew where he was going, Bella."

I meet his eyes, a challenge in my own. "I knew where the army was sending him. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

A tense silence descends, broken only by the clinking of silverware against China. Wyatt clears his throat, his gaze darting between Marcus and me like a spectator at a tennis match.

"Service changes a man," Marcus says, his voice low and measured. "You can't expect him to come back the same."

I snort derisively. "No, I suppose not. But trading one battlefield for another seems a bit extreme, don't you think?"

Marcus leans forward, his expression hardening. "You have no idea what he's seen, what he's been through."

"Enlighten me," I challenge, crossing my arms defiantly.

My fork scrapes against the porcelain plate, the shrill sound echoing the discordant symphony in my head. Each bite of the perfectly seared scallops feels like ash in my mouth. Across the table, Wyatt and Marcus exchange uneasy glances, their forced smiles a flimsy veil for the growing tension.

"He's watched friends die," Marcus says, his voice thick with a grief I couldn't begin to comprehend. "Held dying children in his arms."

A lump forms in my throat, threatening to choke me. I stab at a rogue pea, the tines of my fork clinking against the fine china. He's seen things, done things, that would break most men. And yet, all I can feel is this gnawing resentment, a selfish anger that twists in my gut like a poisoned vine.

"He chose that life," I spit, my words sharp as shards of glass. "He chose service over everything else. Over me."

Shame floods me, hot and suffocating. I set my fork down with a clatter, my appetite waning for the second time. At this rate, I'll have to survive on alcohol and cocoa. The crystal goblet in my hand trembles as I raise it to my lips, the cool liquid doing little to quench the fire burning within me.

I know I'm being a spoiled brat, a petulant child throwing a tantrum. But the hurt, the abandonment, the sheer unfairness of it all claws at me, demanding to be heard. It's been years since River left, and yet the wound still feels fresh, raw.

My gaze drifts to the empty chair beside me, the one that should be filled with River's warmth, his laughter, his love. Instead, it's a gaping void, a constant reminder of the life we could have had.

A tear slides down my cheek, leaving a salty trail on my skin. I swipe it away furiously, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing my weakness. But the dam has broken, and the emotions I've been holding back for so long threaten to spill over.

I take a deep breath, the scents of rosemary and thyme filling my nostrils. It's a familiar comfort, a reminder of the home River and I could have built together. We had everything going for us until he decided I could be just as happy with another man—the fuck? Who says that? It's the classic "it's not you, it's me", but told in a more dramatic way.

My words and the way I'm projecting myself are juvenile. But the truth is, I'm angry. Angry at River for leaving, angry at the world for taking him away, angry at myself for not being enough to keep him here. And until I can untangle this mess of emotions, all I can do is sit here, a prisoner of my own bitterness, and let rage seep through my veins.

Marcus's jaw tightens, his eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and sorrow. "He did what he thought was right," he says, his voice falling. "What was necessary."

"Necessary for whom?" I challenge, my voice rising. "For the country? For the army? Or for himself?"

Marcus' eyes meet mine, a silent battle raging between us. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Finally, he sighs, defeat evident in his posture. "What service has done to him…it has scarred him beyond repair."

I stare at him, a hollow feeling settling in my chest. I want to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all. But the words die in my throat, replaced by a cold, empty ache.

There's no second-guessing it—Marcus is right. River is a broken man, haunted by demons I can't even begin to fathom. But a part of me still clings to the hope that maybe, just maybe, there's a flicker of the man I once loved buried deep beneath the scars.

My fingers, still gripping the wine glass, tighten until my knuckles turn white. The delicate crystal protests with a faint creak. I blink rapidly, forcing back the tears that threaten to betray my composure. How petty, how insignificant my grievances seem now, compared to the horrors River has endured.

Across the table, Wyatt and Marcus watch me with a mixture of sadness and apprehension. I can see it in their eyes, the unspoken question. Will she break?

But I won't. Not here. Not in front of them.

I set the wine glass down with a decisive clink. My chair scrapes against the hardwood floor as I push back from the table, the noise grating against my raw nerves.

"Excuse me," I murmur, my voice barely a whisper.

I hurry into the kitchen, my footsteps muffled by the plush rug. The familiar scents of garlic and rosemary ground me in the present as I work. I grab a plate from the cupboard, my hands shaking slightly as I pile it high with roasted vegetables, a bowl of the braised, meaty soup, and bread. He doesn't eat seafood.

Each movement is a battle against the relentless onslaught of guilt and shame. I had been so focused on my own pain that I hadn't even considered his. The realization stings, a sharp slap across the face. I hadn't just been selfish. I had been cruel.

A tear escapes, plopping onto the plate. I quickly wipe it away, my fingers tracing the delicate patterns etched into the China.

My gaze falls on the photo hanging on the wall, a snapshot of River and Marcus. A pang of longing pierces my heart, sharp and unrelenting.

I take a deep breath. The food smells delicious and the bread is warm. It should be enough to get him out of his drunken stupor for the amount of time I need to drive some sense into him. I grab a linen napkin and a set of silverware, my fingers curling around the cool metal.

There's no room in my heart for forgiveness. Not yet. The hurt is too deep, the wound still raw. But I can't bear the thought of him suffering alone, drowning in a sea of pain and regret.

Seeing the way things are going, I have two options. I can finish the food and go to bed and not sleep all night long, or, well, we all know the or .

With a little exhale, I begin stepping away from the kitchen. My steps are slow, hesitant, each one heavier than the last. "I'm going to the study," I say over my shoulder. "Thanks for the food." My voice quavers slightly, and my footsteps are unsteady, but I go anyway. There's no sense in being here if I don't do this.

In fact, this was part of the reason behind my return to Whispering Pines—and I'm a fool for not admitting this to myself.

My hands are shaking as I stop outside the study. I set the tray down and knock three times. The sound echoes in the hallway, louder than I expected. Shivers run over the expanse of my arms and up my neck. Breathing hard, I do my best to gain some composure. But my heart continues to race.