Henry’s mouth pressed into a hard, thin line and the temperature in the room seemed to drop a good ten degrees.
“It will cost you,” he said. “I’m sure.”
Jacob didn’t hesitate. He looked up at Henry, his blue eyes blazing in a way that made my heart skip several beats.
“Worth it.”
His mouth twisted up in a crooked grin as his gaze shifted to me, and I couldn’t resist smiling back, even as something in my chest did a weird little lurch again.
Henry seemed satisfied, if you could call that expression anything close to satisfaction. He stepped back, already done with me, with us, turning toward a cluster of women in cocktail dresses that each probably cost more than my rent for the month.
“Miss Jones,” Jacob said softly, drawing my attention back to him. “If you’ll come with me.”
My fingers tightened around the handle of my suitcase. I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice not to crack, and followed him.
We crossed the foyer under a wash of chandelier light. My boots squeaked once on the polished floor. Voices hummed behind us, low and speculative, tracking us as we went.
Let them look, I thought, lifting my chin.I don’t give a shit what a single one of them thinks of me.
They weren’t the ones on the chopping block on the very first night of the game.
We moved down a side hallway that felt older than the foyer. It was narrower, the walls closer in, lined with faded paintings and dark wood trim. The heat vents rattled faintly somewhere in the bones of the building. Underneath the faint scent of furniture polish and wood smoke from the fireplaces, I could smell old wood, cold air, and something evergreen.
“Sorry about all that,” Jacob said after a beat, his voice pitched low enough that it wouldn’t carry. “Henry’s… thorough.”
“That’s one word for it,” I muttered.
He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh.
“The rules matter,” he said. “To him and to Mr. Stonewood. If they think someone’s here for the wrong reasons, they’d rather cut you loose early than waste their time.”
“And you?” I asked. “Do the rules matter to you?”
He hesitated just long enough for me to notice.
“They matter,” he said finally. “But sometimes… context matters more.”
We passed a tall, arched window. Outside, the sky was already bruising toward full dark, clouds heavy and low. I could see thecurve of the drive, the bare tops of trees, a hint of ice starting to slick over the stone steps.
Inside, my skin still buzzed from that moment in the foyer, from Henry’s warning in particular. The threat of being escorted out had left me uneasy, and the way that Jacob had stepped up without even flinching made me ache in a way I couldn’t explain.
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.
He wasn’t what most people would call traditionally handsome.
But to me? He was devastatingly beautiful in a tragic sort of way, like a priceless painting that had been damaged, but was somehow more interesting and valuable because of it.
That scar should’ve made people stare for the wrong reasons. I imagined that it made most people flinch, look away, and/or pretend they hadn’t seen it. I’d seen that before, in the hardware store. The way one cashier had gone pale and the other acted like Jacob might be more likely to rob the store because of his facial scarring.
But the longer I looked, the less I saw ‘ruined’ and the more I saw a story carved into his skin, one of strength built over pain… a story of survival.
The scars didn’t make him less. They made him more.
My fingers tightened on the suitcase handle again, itching with the stupid, reckless urge to reach up and trace them, one by one.
Congratulations, Chrissy. You’re officially losing your mind.
We turned up a flight of stairs, then down another hallway. This one was quieter, with no voices leaking under the doors.There was only the thump of my heart and the steady rhythm of Jacob’s boots on polished hardwood.
