Chapter 52: Sisterly Advice
Damien didn’t move from the shade of the porte-cochere for a long time. He watched the dark mouth of the shed, the occasional rhythmic thwock of the maul hitting wood a distant, punishing echo. Each one felt like a verdict. He’d seen Jackson go in, then leave. The solidarity of it, the unspoken understanding between the ranch hands and Beth, was a wall he couldn’t scale.
He’d fucked it up. Spectacularly.
The sight of Beau Gracie—easy smile, open truck, a past that didn’t include betrayals—had been a white-hot spike behind his ribs. And that laugh. Beth’s laugh, untouched by the cynicism he’d bred in her, light and free. He’d been surviving on scraps—a sharp retort here, a reluctantly given touch there—and Beau got a symphony.
“You planning to fossilize there, or are you just part of the new landscaping?”
The voice, laced with a familiar, dry amusement, came from behind him. Dove. She leaned against the marble frame of the front door, arms crossed, a smudge of engine grease on her forearm. She’d been in the workshops.
“Contemplating my monumental stupidity,” he said, not turning. “It’s a panoramic view.”
“Uh-huh.” She pushed off and walked to stand beside him, following his gaze to the shed. The rhythmic splitting had stopped. “Jealousy’s an ugly color on you, Rossi. Clashes with the whole ‘reformed romantic’ palette you’ve been trying to paint.”
“He looked at her like she was…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentiment without sounding pathetic.
“Like she was Beth?” Dove supplied. “Yeah. He knows that version. The one before the armor. It’s a powerful thing to see.” She paused, letting the Texas heat do the talking for a moment. “You’re sweating through a two-thousand-dollar shirt. Come on.”
She didn’t wait for an agreement, just turned and walked through the main house toward the back veranda. He followed, the cool, still air of the interior a shock. The veranda overlooked the infinity pool and, beyond it, the rose gardens Beth had designed. It was empty.
Dove gestured to a wrought-iron chair. “Sit. You’re making the place look tense.”
He sat. She remained standing, leaning on the railing, a picture of casual authority. “Let’s diagnose the patient. You saw a ghost from her past, a nice one with tamales and no criminal record, and your first instinct was to puff up your chest and mark your territory. You used the word ‘courting’ like you were ordering a takeout menu. Am I warm?”
Damien stared at the geometric perfection of the pool water. “I believe the clinical term is ‘catastrophic self-sabotage.’”
“Poetic.” Dove turned, her green eyes—so like Beth’s, but harder, like river stone—narrowed. “You wanna get out of the doghouse? Or you wanna keep sulking and let Beau Gracie bring over more authentic regional cuisine until she remembers what quiet feels like?”
“What do you suggest, Dove? Flowers? Jewels? I’ve offered her companies.” The frustration bled into his voice.
“And she built her own. That’s your first problem. You keep offering her things she doesn’t need.” Dove walked over and sat across from him, the iron chair scraping. “Beau offers nostalgia. A simpler story. You can’t compete with that. You shouldn’t try.”
“So I just concede?”
“No, you idiot. You offer the antidote to simple.” She leaned forward. “Beth isn’t some delicate fawn. She’s the goddamn forest. You think she stayed up all night negotiating the shipping lane contracts for her Bordeaux imports because she craves simple? She likes the fight. She likes the complexity. You were the most complex thing that ever happened to her.”
Damien was silent, listening.
“The problem is,” Dove continued, her voice dropping, “the last time your particular brand of complexity showed up, it broke her heart. So now you’re trying to perform ‘perfect gentleman.’ It’s transparent. And boring. She sees right through it. She’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Be honest. Not charming. Not strategic. Honest.” Dove pinned him with a look. “Tell her you saw Beau and you wanted to put his truck through a woodchipper. Tell her it scares you, that version of her life where you’re not in it. Tell her you don’t know how to do this—the begging, the waiting—but you’re trying. Your strength was never in being safe, Damien. It was in being undeniable. So stop with the curated courtship. Show her the raw nerve.”
He absorbed this, the ruthless practicality of it. Dove Montgomery dealt in truths, not comforts. “And if the raw nerve is too much? If it just… reminds her of why she left?”
“Then you have your answer, don’t you?” She stood up. “But I’ve seen you two. That fire didn’t go out. It’s just banked. Someone’s gotta be brave enough to throw a log on it. Might as well be you.” She started to walk away, then stopped. “Oh, and Rossi? The grand gestures? Do one, but make it for her, not for your ego. She spent the morning chopping wood. Her hands are torn up. The gardens she designed have a cutting shed. There’s salve and bandages in there. It’s not a diamond. But it’s a observation. It’s a ‘I see you.’ Try that.”
She disappeared into the house, leaving him alone with the hum of the pool filter and the weight of her words.
Be undeniable.
He looked toward the rose gardens, the labyrinthine paths Beth walked when she needed to think. The cutting shed was a small stone structure, half-hidden by climbing Queen Elizabeth roses.
He stood, his decision solidifying. No more pouting. No more performative romance. He left the veranda, his steps quickening on the flagstone path. The scent of roses, thick and almost cloying, wrapped around him.
The shed door was unlocked. Inside, it was neat, filled with gardening tools, stacks of terra cotta pots, and on a clean shelf, a simple first-aid kit. He took it. Then he saw, on a worktable, a single, flawless Peace rose in a vase, likely cut that morning. It was pale, complex, layers upon layers of petals. Without overthinking it, he took that, too.
He found her not in the garden, but on the stone bench at its very center, the heart of the labyrinth. She was looking at her palms, at the fresh blisters there. She didn’t look up as he approached, but her posture tightened.
He stopped in front of her, said nothing. He just set the first-aid kit on the bench beside her, then placed the single rose on top of it.
She looked at the items, then slowly up at him. Her eyes were wary, exhausted.
“Dove’s advice?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Partly.” He didn’t smile. He sank to his knees in the gravel before the bench, putting himself below her eye level. He opened the kit, took out the antiseptic wipe. “My hands are steadier.”
She hesitated, a war playing out in her face. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from her bones, she extended her right hand.
He took it, his touch deliberately gentle. He cleaned the broken blisters, the work-raw skin. His own hands, capable of acts of brutal violence, were meticulously careful. “I was jealous,” he said, not looking up from his task. “It was a primitive, stupid reaction. I saw him, and I saw a road where I just… didn’t exist. It felt like dying.”
Beth didn’t pull her hand away. She watched him.
“I don’t know how to do this, Beth. The patience. The… deference.” He smoothed salve over her palm, the action intimate. “I only know how to want something and take it. But you’re not something to be taken. You never were.” He began wrapping her hand in a light bandage. “So I’m just telling you. The sight of him with you makes me feel savage. The thought of you choosing a quiet life over this mess… it terrifies me. I’m terrified. And I’m trying.”
He finished with her right hand, reached for her left. She gave it to him.
“Beau is a good man,” she said quietly, testing the words.
“I know he is.” Damien kept his focus on her hand. “And if good is what you need, I will walk off this ranch tonight. But if you want… this…” He glanced up, finally meeting her eyes. The green was stormy, conflicted. “If you want the man who knows every broken part of you and loves you more for it, the man who will burn cities to the ground just to keep you warm… I’m right here. On my knees. Asking you to choose the complication.”
He finished bandaging her left hand. He didn’t let go. He held her hands, ruined from her anger, in his.
In the center of her own secret garden, Beth Montgomery looked at her ex-husband, the mafia boss, kneeling in the gravel, holding her bandaged hands, and for the first time that day, the mask of icy control wasn’t just cracked. It was gone. What was left was pure, unguarded conflict.
She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no.
She just looked at their joined hands, and her thumb, slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved to stroke the back of his.