He pulled me into his room and closed the door, keeping our conversation private from his parents, and from Nessie, whose little voice was singing the happy songs I’d taught her down the hall.
“He’s said things. There were other girls. He’s a trafficker. What if he had my dad killed to bring me here, to control. . . you know who. What if these are the men who did it?”
Woodrow didn't say a word, silently sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Oh, fuck, I'm right. I know I'm right!”
“We can't know that.”
“Instinct. What do yours say?”
He swallowed, his hand hiding the action. His eyes downcast to the carpet beneath the toes I scrunched back, hiding the chipping paint.
“That I don't know you’re wrong. That I don't trust him, either, and I think he would do something that hateful after what recently happened here. Would you recognize them?”
“I don’t know. Why do you think they are coming? I don’t remember faces. I just remember voices. What if they are coming back for me?”
“You’ll be fine. He won't send you away. If, what you’re saying is right, he needs you.”
“So, why would they be coming here?”
“I don't know. . . but like I said, dinner and done. The first sign of trouble, we're out.”
“He’s not gonna let me walk out of that kitchen.”
“I promise you, I won't let them hurt you.”
The last sixty minutes, I'd spent with Wynter, who dictated how I prepared to cook, how I cleaned, and how I cut potatoes. Apparently, my perfect cubes, were not, in fact, perfect cubes.
I moved around the kitchen, with a scowl hiding beneath a false smile.
It was just us two down here.
I’d encouraged Woodrow to go outside with Nessie because his anxiety was putting me on a sharper edge than that of the knife I held. He’d taken her to Bonny’s hutch, along with a lunch they’d packed for their adored pet, after she’d somehow slipped her mother’s attention for the last hour—probably because it was on me and everything I did wrong.
They'd been gone an hour already. That was how long it had taken to venture to the rabbit hutch and search the area for the missing bunny. It was my idea to stay behind, prepping food. The more I got done now, the less time I'd have to spend with theunwanted company.
While I prepared for the meal I'd be cooking, Nessie was still double-checking everywhere they'd already searched for Bonny, who wasn’t in her usual space.
The little animal loved her hutch, but she loved Woodrow’s gentle touches more, and often followed him back to the house to be closer to him.
She’d done this yesterday apparently, and yesterday’s walk back was hard for the small animal. Woodrow wanted to keep a watch over her, so he snuck her into his room, keeping her there until the early hours of this morning when he carried her back to her den. That was his excuse, this time.
“Did you see her last night?” Nessie asked, looking up to his tall height, swinging her hand in his, not noticing the seriousness on his face.
Woodrow’s eyes blinked twice—his silent way of saying yes. His throat was a little sore today, lingering pains from Ville’s abuse.
He adjusted his discomfort. “I saw her this morning. We need to head back. Daddy is usually out and about by now. I don’t want him to find her if she's ventured to the house.”
Nessie answered silently with a head bob, then followed him through the trees.
It was a silent journey back; the only sound was the rustle of fabric as the breeze caught Nessie’s dress when she got bored and finally decided to run ahead.
Woodrow couldn't run—not for more than a few minutes—unless he was powered by the rage of the alter who thought nothing of pain. It was something he explained when I first met him, asking if he wanted to join me on my morning stretch. He didn’t want to say no, so he’d tagged along, dropping back shortly after and continuously throughout. It hurt him, his throat feeling tighter when he was out of breath.
He couldn't run, but his pace was quicker today, and he was already breathing heavy when the house came into view for him.
Woodrow
