Which do I believe more—that a piece of old iron will protect me, or that I’m even in danger?
And if I am in danger, why does Declan Sterling—who was a stranger to me two days ago—think I’m worth protecting?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Declan
Sleep’s a joke.
Every time I close my eyes, I taste her. The metallic sting, the soft heat of her skin, the little sound she made when I?—
Fuck!I drag my hands over my face, stubble scraping against my palms. Thinking about her, replaying our time together only makes the burn under my skin worse.
Her blood’s in me now. My tattoos hum like I swallowed lightning. No amount of pacing the length of my apartment, no amount of staring at the cold iron anchors on my walls, calms it.
By the time the sun shines its weak gray light through the fog, I’ve worn a path on the floorboards. I grab my jacket, let out a string of curses, and head for the inn. Just to check on her. That’s all. It’s my duty. My curse.
Mrs. Applewood’s in the lobby chatting with a pair of tourists about the farmer’s market. With her gray hair coiled into a tight bun and her homey plaid flannel dress, she could be a harmless little grandma who bakes muffins and shows off her prize butternut squash every fall. But there’s nothing benign about her. She was friends with my grandmother and holds many Sterling family secrets. Her lively eyes lock on me as I stepinside, and her lips curl into a welcoming smile as if she’d been wondering when I’d show up this morning.
“Good morning, Declan.” Her smile widens, full of that matchmaking mischief she’s famous for. Knowing Mrs. Applewood, the second a single woman near my age checked in, she was already eyeing the Old Dutch church calendar for a free Saturday.
I dip my chin in greeting. “Morning, Mrs. Applewood.”
She moves closer and curls her hand around my arm and turns me toward the two tourists. “This is Declan Sterling. His ancestors helped found Crowsbridge Hollow. He owns the House of Ink and Iron. He and the other artists there are incredibly talented. If you’re looking for a new tattoo while you’re in town, make sure you stop by.”
The couple recoils in horror at the suggestion of some ink.
“We’re pretty booked up this weekend,” I say to let them off the hook.
The woman forces a polite smile. “Maybe next time.”
The couple scoots away from us and out the door.
I point to the stairs, itching to get away from whatever one-on-one conversation Mrs. Applewood wants to have with me. “Is Emery upstairs?”
Known me my whole life or not, she won’t give me a guest’s room number, but I can probably persuade her to call Emery.
“You just missed her.”
Good.Emery gave up and went home. Relief flickers through me, quickly followed by regret.
What if I never see her again?
“Checked out early, huh?” My question comes out rougher than I want. If I’m mad at anyone it’s myself, not Mrs. Applewood.
“No.” Her eyebrows draw down. “She was headed to the library.”
Blood thunders through my veins in a steady, excited rhythm. She’s still here.
She’s still indanger.
Her frown deepens. “Says she’s doing research on the town for her YouTube channel.”
“I’m aware.”
“Baxter will keep her busy,” she says.
“I’m sure he will.” Nosy bugger’s been preserving archives on the founding families and the Hollow for decades.
