“Da’s right. You are a pussy,” Hamish says, stepping closer, and he sucker punches Axe right in the gut. Axe feels the hit, sharp and fast, but doesn’t give Hamish the reaction he wants. Instead, he looks past his shoulder, as if seeing a ghost lurking there that his brother cannot see.
Axe’s mum, Lurlene, was a model. She used to live behind a locked door in the keep, the part of the castle that used to be its most heavily guarded building, and it still is—men with rifles stand by its doors all day and night. Lurlene got specialprivileges because she belonged to Da. She didn’t have to go to the parties, didn’t even talk to the other girls. Axe wasn’t allowed to see her except on special visiting days, when he’d walk past the men with the guns and enter the keep and then sit on his mum’s lap while she read to him.
Until one day Da said things were going to change. A lad did not need to be babied by his mother. And then, as if it were of no consequence, he told Axe that there would be no more visiting days; his mum had gone to heaven.
Axe remembers his own mum as warm and Hamish’s as cold. Hamish’s mom, Ekaterina, was a short, thin woman who flitted around the castle in a bikini even when it was snowing. He remembers her “taking care of the other girls,” which seemed to mean yelling at them in a language he didn’t recognize when they stepped out of line. Russian, maybe? Axe doesn’t know what happened to her, either. She was there before he left for boarding school and was gone by the time he got back. And that’s when Hamish changed, too: started noticing the girls, made them look at him and touch him like they did Da and his friends.
“You’re just going to stand there, ya daft prick? Come on. Fight me. Show me what you’re made of,” Hamish says, fists raised like a boxer’s. This is what Hamish does when he’s bored. He sniffs around for trouble.
“Do we really have to—” Axe says, and before he can finish his question, he hears the crack and then feels the blood gushing from his nose. Hamish punched him right in the face. He is a pussy, he thinks, he must be. Because even now, all Axe wants to do is run.
He understands the girls—the pills and the needles, their unfocused eyes. He understands dreaming about the oblivion of thedeep blue sea, of catapulting off this tiny patch of land into the unknown.
Far, far away from the king of the castle. Far, far away from Da.
Axe calmly stops the bleeding with the front of his T-shirt, picks upRobinson Crusoefrom the floor, and lightly brushes past his brother’s shoulder as he walks out the door.
Twenty-Six
Josie
One hour, two glasses of water, and a handful of antacids later, I roll up to the Shelton Farmers Market right on time. The place is buzzing with activity—vendors coaxing people to try samples, kids on skateboards zigzagging between tote-wielding grandmas—and the air is alive with mingled scents of fresh herbs and baked goods. I spot Axe almost immediately across the bustling fruit stand. Hard not to. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and so impossibly good-looking it’s honestly annoying. He’s carrying a huge wicker basket piled high with greens, and he looks like the farmers market version of the Brawny Man.
I take a deep breath and walk toward him, my feelings all tangled up between anticipation and doubt. Axe spots me, waves, and flashes a grin that could light up a room, and, ugh, I can’t help but grin back. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something about him—an effortless charm that’s hard to ignore.
But…part of me still resists. I’m hesitant, maybe even a little wary. Sure, we’ve gotten closer, and the more I find out, the more I like. But I keep reminding myself: He’s Axe MacKenzie. Blunt, rough around the edges, and definitely not in my lane.
Honor told me that in all the years Strike’s known him, Axehas never been in love. Strike thinks he might not evendolove. Like, he might be biologically incapable. Not that any of this should matter to me. I’m just here for a job.
As I approach, his smile widens even more, cranking up my pulse despite the queasiness churning in my stomach.
“A posy for Josie,” he teases in his lilting Scottish accent, handing me a big, fat sunflower from his basket. “Something to brighten your day.”
“Aw, thanks, Axe. It’s beautiful.” I pop it in my canvas tote. It feels like I’m carrying a smile.
“Did you manage all right last night? You were a bit crabbit when I dropped you off.”
“Crabbit?” I snort. “What the hell doescrabbitmean?”
“You know, a little bit…um…”
“Bitchy?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that!” Axe gasps, feigning innocence.
“Wouldn’t blame you if you did. I wasn’t my normal happy self. My stomach was feeling off, but I’m better now.”
“We could do this another day,” he offers. “And, for the record, not always being happy doesn’t make you a bitch.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and instead of continuing to push, like Mom would, he drops it. Trusts me. No fuss, no fight. It’s weirdly…refreshing.
“So the tech wonks want this whole thing to feel ‘light and casual,’ ” he says, making air quotes. “And they’ve got me wired for physiological reactions, and the mic will pick up both of our voices. They wanted to wire you, too—but I nixed it. I reckon we can build up to that. Bad enough that I feel like I’m part of a sting operation. I thought my CIA days were well behind me.”
“I thought the CIA was like the first rule of Fight Club. Youdon’t talk about it.” The corners of his mouth tick up, and I love that I can do that to him.
“Aye,” he says, his grin widening. “I guess you make me break the rules.”
I start to relax as we stroll through the market. Having Axe by my side is definitely distracting me from my queasiness, and the easy flow of our conversation helps melt away some of the anxiety. I know this isn’t my real life (my real life involves late-night praying to the porcelain gods and a cursed to-do list that never gets shorter), but this is close enough. For a moment, I let myself imagine it: Saturday mornings like this, cool air on my face, filling a tote with fresh veggies and overpriced artisan soaps, a hot guy next to me, the world spinning just right. Like the messy parts don’t exist.
