“Especially then.”
“Why?”
He deadpans—eyes locked on mine like he’s delivering some sacred vow. “Because Level 5, Girly. You’re our Queen. Our Goddess. Now and always.”
My breath catches. The words don’t feel like a compliment or a manipulation. They feel like something planted deep in the earth—unmovable, terrifying in their sincerity.
But how can I believe that?Easthaventaught me what I was worth. The second I spoke up, fought back, or cried wrong, I was punished. They taught me my body could be broken down into obedience. That I could be thrown away every night, just to be picked up and broken again the next.
Like an endless nightmare, they pretended it was a perfect dream. Because they were “fixing” me.
Yet…here, even if they use me, abuse me, and I’m still not sure they won’t, theyletme have my voice. My anger. My hunger. Myself.They don’t see me as something to be fixed. I just am. And they just are. Part of something.
I shake the thought off before it digs in too deep.
“Why are you the best with the animals?” I ask, needing a change of focus.
Vincent shrugs and gestures for me to follow him past the goat pens. “Because they don’t lie,” he says. “And I prefer them over most humans.”
Like I prefer plants.
We enter the barn, where it’s mustier and darker, but the wind doesn’t bite at my flesh anymore. Passing stalls, we approach the end of the barn where two elegant equine heads flick up. One snickers softly, the other paws at the floor like it’s impatient for Vincent.
Vincent doesn’t rush. He just moves with quiet solitude, palms flat, voice low as he murmurs things I don’t understand. He strokes their sides and muzzles, cooing to them with affection I could never believe he possessed.
I stand back and watch.
They trust him. And if he wants me to trust him, too, then he’ll have to earn it.
They all will.
Why do I want him to earn my trust? None of them has any right to my trust. Not now. Not ever.
I tear my gaze away before the ache in my chest cracks into something worse. When I shiver, I feel Vincent’s eyes on me. I don’t get a chance to look up before a great, warm shadow of clothing falls over my shoulders. Emotion forms a lump in my throat at the realization. I may not know much about them, but I know this isimportantto him. The hoodie overwhelms me with its scent, all dark musk and masculinity, sandalwood and earth. The sleeves drown me, and it functions more like a coat since it falls to my knees.
When I glance up, my breath hitches. Holy moly, man muscles. For the first time, I’m really looking at him. It still dumbfounds me how much that hoodie hides. A black tank is all he wears aside from his jeans. Tattoos cover nearly every inch of exposed skin. Bulging sinew and veins throb with hearty, masculine blood.
But it’s the scars. I wince, feeling the pain of my own. Except, Vincent has no bandages. All the recent welts and striped flesh? They’ve been cauterized, not stitched.
I murmur a ‘thank you’.
As he picks up a brush to groom the mare, the tension in his shoulders begins to soften.
I slowly zip up the hoodie and roll the sleeves up as much as I can before tightening the drawstrings at the top so it won’t slip.
For the next hour, I learn how Vincent takes care of the animals. He shows me the food storage area, which is made of large plastic bins filled with goat pellets, bags of oats, and sweet-smelling hay stacked against the wall. There’s a separatelocked cabinet for veterinary supplies: needles, salves, clippers, bandages, and a shelf of meds I mentally catalog in case I ever need to sedate someone bigger than me.
In the back corner sits a small trough-style sink with a long-handled brush and jugs of apple cider vinegar, which he says they use for cleaning wounds and deterring flies. I store that away too. Vinegar could burn. Or blind. Could disinfect a gash, too.
Knives hang above the feed prep station, supposedly for opening bales and cutting rope. He doesn’t even glance twice as he uses one to slice into a stubborn feed bag. Just leaves it there on the table when he’s done.
I could work with this.
Vincent brushes a bit of hay off his sleeve while he mucks out the stall. He wouldn’t let me do it because there’s too much risk of ripping my stitches, but he taught me how to feed the goats and groom the horses.
I steal glances at him, remembering our encounter in the pit.
Vinny.
