‘Why bother?’The words scratched her throat as she released them.‘Why me?’
This, at least, she knew.Blood.Blue blood, political connections, status.And a father who would not so much as blink while indiscretion ripped strips from her heart.
Everyone.
Knew.
‘Your Grace?’A long pause followed the deep timbre.‘Lorelei?’
Lorelei crawled the floor from the bed to the chest of drawers.Who cared if the estate manager saw her like this?Everyone knew how pathetic she was.She did not have the stamina to hide it any longer.She wrenched open a drawer.Yanked out the ribbon and a sheet of paper, then threw the perfume bottle against the wall, followed by the powder pot.This might not be her house, but it was her son’s house, and he deserved rooms that did not remind him of the fact that he, like herself, had been second best.That he was quiet and thoughtful, and while that may not have pleased William, it did not make him a failure.She pulled at the next handle—empty.And the next.She flung some trinket aside, then tore out and tossed the entire gaudy drawer.
Each movement was accompanied by a sob, and she could not control her hands as they sought for any last vestige of the betrayal, any final hint ofthem.She emptied and discarded drawer after drawer, stuck an arm into the darkness beneath the bed, stumbled to her feet to fling open the wardrobe in search of any tiny remnant of her ignorance.
‘I will not be blind,’ she muttered like a prayer.‘I will not be stupid.I will not be laughed at—’
Arms wrapped around her, and Tillman held her close.The scent of citrus softened the air, even as his whiskers scratched her ear.
‘Breathe.’His grip tightened.‘Slower.Like this.’And he inhaled, his chest expanding against her back, then holding.Holding.Lorelei inhaled until her chest burned, releasing the air as he exhaled with her.‘I’m sorry.’He pressed his forehead to the back of her head.‘I should have told you.I should have given you the chance to be strong.No.I should have seen how strong you already had to be.’
‘I am not strong.I am ridiculous.And I am tired.’
‘Youarestrong,’ he said with a squeeze.‘I have an idea.I need you to hold all those feelings.Don’t push them down.Don’t let them go.’
His warmth left, and without his support, Lorelei folded to the floor again.So be it.The floor was where she needed to be.Low and out of the way.She lay down, cheek against the carpet, as he stomped away.Breathed in the dust and fluff.His boots clacked the stairs, then scuffed across the threshold as he returned.
‘Stand up,’ he ordered.
She spread her arms and flattened her body against the floor.‘No.’
‘Please.’She lay still, and he huffed.‘I am trying to help.That is my job.To help.Specifically, to help you.’
Lorelei heaved herself onto her back, her skirts dragging and falling into place across her as she rolled.She looked up.Tillman towered above her, his hair hanging loose as he studied her.And, braced between his hands, he held—
Lorelei scrambled to sit.‘Have you lost your wits?What are you doing with an axe?’
‘You want to get rid of his things?Their things?Then get rid of them.’He hefted it between his hands.‘Don’t order it done.Do it.’
‘Women don’t swing axes,’ she said.
‘If you’d ever spent time in the fields and the village, you’d know that women do swing axes.Oh,’ he said with a mock smile of realisation and a teasing lilt to his voice.‘You mean women like you.You mean ladies.You mean duchesses who can’t manage anything, because all you do is hold teacups.Who lie on the floor because they can’t even manage to be angry.Isthatwho you want to be?’
With a stumble, Lorelei pushed herself to standing.Tillman held out the axe with one hand.
Lorelei stripped off a glove.She slid a finger along the smooth curve of the implement’s head and pressed against the corner of the blade.Just enough to feel the sharpness but not to break the skin.
‘You don’t like all this?You want it gone?’He stepped closer and pushed the axe against her chest.‘Be angry.Break it.Destroy it.Do it.’
Lorelei grasped the axe by the handle.As Tillman released it, the head dropped beneath its own weight, but before it could slip from her grasp, she caught it with both hands.It was heavy, worn, and had one purpose—work.Unlike her, who existed as nothing more than ornamentation.She tightened and loosened her hold.Her skin, so thin and soft, puckered against the handle.Tillman nudged her closer to the bed.
Lorelei kept her eyes on the bottom rail but couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting to the mattress.Couldn’t stop herself from thinking of her heart, broken over and over again, for years.She raised the axe, her muscles tightening with the effort, then swung.The blade bounced off the wood with nothing more than a thud.She hung her head and waited for the laughter and criticism that always followed trying and failing.
‘Don’t fight it.’Tillman spoke softly, just loud enough for his voice to cross the room.‘Let the handle do the work.You aren’t a woodsman.’He moved behind her and reached around her waist on both sides.He placed his hand over hers, smothering it beneath his palm, and together, they slid down the shaft of the axe, almost to the end.His biceps lay against hers, his chest flush with her back, and she should probably object to his closeness, but it felt so raw and honest.She relaxed into his instructions like she could absorb his purpose, leant back until his beard tickled her cheek.‘Let the blade cut.You just direct it to where you want it to go.You have it?’
She tested the axe in her hands again.‘I have it.’
‘Good.’This time, there was a smile in his voice.He stepped away.‘When you are ready.’
Lorelei braced herself.She pictured them again, but this time, instead of lingering on her sordid imaginings, she balled up the anger, the hurt, the embarrassment.She let it build until it burst, and with a cry from deep in her stomach, she swung the axe and let every shred of feeling race down her arms, into her palms, through her fingers, down the handle, and into her swing.The blade bit the wood, and the paint split.
