I felt my cheeks flush, and I didn’t know why. “I’m not as tough as you.”
He snorted. “Bullshit. You faced down Bart with a folding chair.”
I smiled, remembering the chaos, the rush of adrenaline, the way Bart’s eyes went wide just before the metal hit. “I thought you were going to die.”
“Would’ve been a first,” he said, but there was a glint of humor there now.
I reached out, touched his hand, just for a second. He didn’t pull away.
Finally, I said, “You ever want to just… start over?”
He nodded, eyes still on the window. “Every day.”
I looked at the clock, saw that it was almost noon. I knew Dad would be here soon, checking on the flock, making sure the wolves hadn’t gotten to me.
I stood, smoothed my skirt again, and looked at Axel, really looked. He was battered, broken, stitched up with more scars than I’d ever seen, but he was alive. And that, I realized, was more than I could say for most people I knew.
“Coffee?” I blurted before I could think better. “When you get out of here. Or drinks. Or whatever people like us do.”
He blinked, surprised, then smiled—just a little, just enough. “You buying?”
“Only if you promise not to get in another fight.”
He held up his good hand, three fingers raised. “Scout’s honor.”
I grinned, giddy and terrified.
Before I could say more, a voice boomed down the hallway. “Darla Maple! Out here, now.”
My stomach dropped. I looked back at Axel, panic rising. He met my gaze, steady and unafraid.
I straightened my shoulders, brushed the hair from my eyes, and stepped into the hallway. Dad’s face was thunder, but I didn’t flinch. Not this time.
Behind me, Axel watched, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was alone.
Maybe I never had been.
9
Axel
Iwas about to say something—I don’t know, maybe “Merry fucking Christmas,” maybe just “hey”—when the door ricocheted off the wall and filled the room with a fresh wave of threat. Reverend Archie Maple, in the flesh, wearing a black overcoat and a suit that looked like it could strangle a lesser man. He filled the doorway and then some, shoulders broad enough to cast a shadow across the whole floor, eyes black as shoe polish and twice as mean. The only color on him was the gold cross pin on his lapel and the fever bloom of rage in his face.
Darla followed him in.
“Darla,” he said, voice soft and poisonous. “Out. Now.”
She jolted like she’d been shot. The bag crumpled in her fist, and the tissue paper made a crackle like a warning flare. She stood, started for the door, then shot me a look. It was brief—apology, panic, something like sorrow—but it was all there, clear as glass. She skirted her father, but he barred the door withhis arm, blocking her exit just long enough to put his mouth to her ear. He whispered something I couldn’t hear. Her shoulders slumped, and she slipped out into the hall, the sound of her sneakers fading fast.
The room shrank by about half when the Reverend stepped in. He let the door swing shut behind him and didn’t bother with the lock. He carried his Bible, thumb hooked into the worn leather like it was a knuckle duster. He didn’t speak right away—just stood at the foot of my bed, letting the silence grow legs and start running laps around my battered skull.
When he finally spoke, his tone was colder than the saline in my IV.
“You think you’re clever.” The smile didn’t touch his eyes. “You think you can just march into my flock, spread your filth, and corrupt my daughter right under my nose.”
I didn’t answer. The painkillers made it easy.
He took a step closer, towering over me, so the air got heavy and electrical. The Bible thudded onto the tray table, just missing the bowl of waxy fruit the hospital called breakfast.
