“The Italians understand cooking—and eating. This is excellent.”

She knew something about cooking now, had even learned to make a few dishes, so she recognized the big stove with its many burners, and the ovens for baking and roasting. A center island held its own sink, which charmed her, and another sink—wider—stood under a window.

Sawyer opened the box that kept things cold—the refrigerator, she remembered. “Already stocked. Riley doesn’t miss a trick. Beer?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Doyle said.

“Anni?”

“I don’t like the beer very much. Is there something else?”

“Got your soft drinks, some fruit juice. And wait.” He pointed up to a rack holding bottles. “Wine.”

“I like the wine.”

“Got you covered then.” He chose a bottle, passed a beer to Doyle, took one for himself, then wandered to a door. “Pantry, also stocked. We’re in business.”

He opened drawers until he found the tool to open the wine. Corkscrew—such a funny word.

“I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m starved. Shifting that many that far, it hulls you out.”

“I could eat,” Doyle decided.

“I’m going to throw something together. Riley was right, Sasha looks pale. We’ll eat, drink, decompress.”

“Have at it then. I’m going to check outside.” With his sword still sheathed on his back, Doyle went through another wide glass door.

“I can help you make the food.”

“Don’t you want to grab up a bedroom?”

“I like to help make the food.” With you, most of all, she thought.

“Okay, let’s keep it simple. Quick pasta, tossed with butter and herbs. And we’ve got . . . yeah, we’ve got tomatoes, mozzarella.” He pulled the cheese from the refrigerator, handed her a tomato from the bowl on the counter. “You remember how to slice these up?”

“Yes, I can slice very well.”

“You slice them up, then find a plate or tray or platter.” He spread his hands to show her size.

He had strong hands, but was gentle with them. Annika thought gentleness was its own kind of strength.

“And you lay them out with the cheese on top of the tomato,” he continued, so she knew to pay attention. “Drizzle this olive oil over them.” He set a container on the counter.

“Drizzle is like rain, but only a little.”

“You got it. Then you’re going to take this.” He walked over to the windowsill, where some pots sat, and broke off a stem with leaves. “It’s basil.”

“I remember. It adds flavor.”

“Yeah. Chop it up some, sprinkle it over everything, grind a little pepper on there, too, and that’s a wrap.”

“It’s a wrap.”

“It’s finished,” he explained.

“I will wrap it for you.”

Pleased, she braided her waist-length black hair back and away. She got to work while he put a pot of water on the stove, poured her wine, drank his beer.

She liked the quiet times with him, and had learned to savor them. There would be more fighting; she knew, accepted. There would be more pain. She would accept that, too. But she had been given a gift. The legs that allowed her to walk out of the sea and onto land, if only for a short time. The friends who were more precious than gold. The purpose that was her legacy and her duty.

And most of all, Sawyer, whom she’d loved before he even knew she existed.

“Do you dream, Sawyer?”

“What?” Distracted, he glanced back at her as he found a colander. “Sure. Sure, most everybody does.”

“Do you dream of when we’ve done our duty, when we have all three stars? When the Stars of Fortune are safe from Nerezza? When there is no more fighting?”

“It’s hard to see that far when we’re in the middle of it. But yeah, I think about it.”

“What do you wish for most, when this is done?”

“I don’t know. It’s been part of my life for so long—the quest if not the battle.”

But he paused in what he was doing, considered. She thought that—the paying attention—was also strength.

“I guess, maybe, it would be enough for the six of us, knowing we’ve done everything we had to do, to sit on a warm beach and look up and see them. See the three stars where they’re meant to be. Knowing we did that. That’s a pretty big dream.”

“Not for wealth or long life?” Her gaze slid toward him. “Or a woman?”

“If I could rub a lamp, I’d be an idiot not to take all that.” He paused a moment, shoved his fingers through his shaggy blond hair. “But the friends who fought with me, that warm beach? That would do just fine. Add a cold beer and it sounds perfect.”

She started to speak again, but Doyle came back through the doors.

Though a tall man, and well muscled, he moved lightly on his feet.

“We don’t have the outdoor training space we had in Greece, but we’ve got a lemon grove we could use, and more privacy than I figured on. Though Bran could add to that anyway. There’s a garden—smaller scale than the one at the villa. And pots of herbs and tomatoes out on the terrace. Big table out there for eating, and that portion’s covered by a grape arbor. Shady, but the bees may be an issue. We’ve got a pool.”