“Say it.” Bronc’s voice dropped to gravel-road rasp.
“To fall correctly.” My fingers spasmed around the coffee cup. “He’d push me during charity galas when no one was looking. Said if I couldn’t be graceful, I should at least be quiet when breaking.”
Bronc’s jaw muscle jumped. “Scars?”
“I have plenty of those.” I pressed two fingers beneath my clavicle. “When he broke the skin or made deep enough cuts that demanded stitches, I have scars. Broken bones, they healed, depending on the type of fracture. A compound fracture took four to six weeks. Hairlines a couple…” I shrugged. “Mother said all thoroughbreds have strong bones. I have some permanent discoloration in some places.”
His pen tip snapped against paper. I flinched at the sound, decades of training keeping me still as he circled the table. Bronc’s calloused palm engulfed my shoulder, thumb pressing where fracture lines should’ve mapped the abuse.
“Shit,” he breathed.
My pulse thumped beneath his touch. “What?”
“Look at me.” Bronc crouched until our eyes leveled, his free hand anchoring mine against the table. “Normal humans don’t heal that fast, darlin’.”
“I don’t know what that means, Bronc.”
He held my eyes. “Ever see your parents, your mother specifically, take more than aspirin? Family doc ever ask questions?”
I shook my head, strands of honey-blonde hair catching on his belt buckle. “We had private physicians. I just figured that’s what rich peopledo.”
Bronc’s thumb stroked the barely scarred skin once before retreating. When he stood, his shadow swallowed me whole. “Keep talking.”
“I decided I’d had enough. There was no way I’d marry that monster. I refined my plan during a Met performance of Swan Lake. Third balcony seat bought with cash, program notes filled with code only my girl, a Bratva princess—Lucia would recognize.”
“Lucia Kozlov?” Bronc interrupted, pen poised. “As in—”
“Philadelphia Kozlov Bratva.” I finished for him.
Bronc’s pen hovered over the notepad, ink bleeding through the paused ‘K’ of Kozlov. “Your college roommate’s running counterfeiting operations now. Makes sense you got decent papers. We’ll get back to the Kozlovs.”
I abandoned my coffee to put a teakettle on the stove. “You believe me?”
“Question is…” He flipped to a fresh page, the motion too sharp for casual conversation. “Why my shop? Out of every garage from New York to Houston?”
I traced the whorls in the butcher block, morning light catching the faded scar along my knuckle. “The listing specified words like ‘discreet, housing option,’ stuff like that.” My throat worked around unspoken words. “And…it said, ‘safe environment for those seeking fresh starts.’ Like you knew I needed help.”
His jaw flinched at my explanation as though pondering why he’d written that ad. He studied my face—my spine straight as a ballerina’s, but I know my shoulders curled forward like a kicked pup. When I lifted my chin, the ghost of Harrison’s fingers clutched my neck beneath my jawline.
“You think it’s stupid?” I busied my hands stacking napkins into a messy tower. “Some pampered princess playing businesswoman. Except I’m damn good at what I do.”
“You’re incredible. Seen how meticulous you are.” He waited until my gaze snapped up. “Nothing gets past you. Iknew you’d found stuff. Shady shit. That’s why I brought you to my office. Trust me, Little Wolf. We’re gonna get to the bottom of it. But first, we need to go back a few steps.”
My foot was tapping on the floor.. “I have questions. As I’m sure you surmised. But first, I need some tea.” I grabbed a teacup and saucer from the cabinet and dropped in a tea bag before taking the kettle off the stove.
“Funny use of words you used earlier. I deepened my voice, mocking his tone. ‘Normal humans don’t heal that fast, darlin.’ The words ‘normal humans’ make it sound like you are implying there is something out there other than normal humans.” I used finger quotes when I said normal humans to drive the point home.
Bronc’s tone was completely serious when he asked. “Would you truly be surprised to hear that yes, there is somethingotherthan normal humans out there?”
The tea bag danced in my cup while I rolled that question over in my mind.
“Your parents ever talk about family history? You ever had strange dreams? Urges to—”
I slowly sat back down and hesitated a moment before I spoke again. “When I was a little girl, I’d dream about wolves. But when I told my mother about my dreams, she told me never to talk about them. They were nonsense. And if I ever had another dream about wolves, I was never to speak of it, and if I did, she’d beat some sense into me. So I worked really hard at making myself not dream about the pretty tan wolf with dark eyes. I’ve not thought about her once in twenty years. Until I heard all the wolves singing to me here. Then, the night before last, I saw her in my dreams again. Only she wasn’t alone. She was running with a big black and silver wolf with blue eyes. And I have found myself sketching the same wolf, over and over.”
Chapter 10
Bronc
