But I knew better. I’d learned by sixteen that nothing was permanent, not even the roof over your head. Especially not the love of people who were supposed to protect you. All it took was one mistake, one wrong word, and you were back in the cold with nothing but what you could carry.
I pressed my cheek against the pillow, letting my breath fog the fabric. I traced the shape of the comforter with my fingertips, counting the seams like a rosary.
The room was dark except for the stripe of moonlight on the wall, and every time the wind shifted, the shadows moved, making the whole place look alive.
I listened for sounds—floorboards settling, the furnace kicking on, the distant thump of Rawley’s boots in the hallway—but the only noise was the hush of my own heart, pounding way too loud in my ears.
For the first time, I let myself think about what would happen if I stayed. If I proved I was useful. If Rawley really meant what he said.
The thought was terrifying, more so than any of the break-ins or close calls I’d lived through so far. Hope was a dangerous thing. It could trick you into thinking you deserved something better, and that was always when life yanked the rug out from under you.
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from picturing it: the garden, in spring, staked and mulched and full of new green. The horses, growing fat and shiny on the pasture I’d bring back from the dead. The kitchen, alive with the smell of bread and woodsmoke, warm even when the wind howled through the gaps in the siding.
A place where maybe I could just…be.
I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to chase the images away. But they just kept coming, stubborn and bright, like seeds that sprouted in the cracks of a sidewalk no matter how many times you tried to rip them out.
I didn’t know what Rawley wanted from me, not really. But for the first time, I was willing to risk finding out.
I rolled over, tucked the blanket tighter around my shoulders, and let myself drift into a shallow, haunted sleep.
* * * *
The house always woke up before I did. I could hear it: the flex of old beams, the whine of pipes, the creak of branches against the glass. By the time I opened my eyes, the gray predawn was already leaking through the cracks in the curtains and sketching out everything in pale blue and white.
I lay there for a second, unsure if I’d actually slept, then forced myself up and out from under the covers. I padded to the window and tugged the cord, letting the curtain swing wide.
The view was nothing but frost rimmed pasture and a strip of sky the color of bruised plums. The chill bit at my ankles and made me shiver, but I liked it.
It felt honest.
I didn’t bother with a shower—I’d washed last night, and there was work to do before anyone else got up. Instead, I threw on my flannel and jeans, tying my hair back with a twist of elastic I found on the floor. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Pale, hollow-eyed, but clean.
It would have to do.
I crept down the stairs, avoiding the spots that squeaked. In the kitchen, I surveyed the territory: counters wiped, dishes stacked, floor swept so clean I could have eaten breakfast off it.Not a speck of dust anywhere. My doing, but I checked anyway, running my hand over the linoleum and picking at a crumb nobody else would have noticed.
The first thing I did was get a fire going in the old woodstove. I would have loved to use the stove, but the house had no electricity. Cooking over the woodstove was the best I could do at the moment.
I made some powdered milk, grabbed eggs from the bowl on the counter, measured flour into a chipped ceramic bowl, and whisked it all together until the batter frothed like sea foam.
I’d found a cache of wild blueberries while on a walk a couple of days ago—my secret, for now—and I dumped a handful into the mix, watching them swirl purple streaks through the pale batter.
Every motion felt surgical. Pour. Whisk. Scrape. I lined up the measuring spoons with the handles parallel to the counter’s edge. I wiped the stovetop twice before letting the cast-iron frying pan heat.
My hands moved without needing to think, but my mind was a rat’s nest: What if Rawley hated sweet breakfasts? What if he thought I was trying too hard? What if he changed his mind about letting me stay?
I didn’t hear him at first, but I felt the shift in the air—the kind of alertness you get when a predator steps into your field of view. My omega instincts went haywire, skin prickling with anticipation and a thread of fear that I hated and craved in equal measure.
Then there was his scent, raw and heavy and impossible to ignore. I kept my eyes on the skillet, but every molecule in my body clocked his approach. He filled the doorway with nothing but presence, six-three and built like a piece of farm machinery. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, head cocked like he was assessing a breach.
“You always up this early?” he asked, voice soft but carrying the threat of volume just under the surface.
“Habit,” I said, glancing up. “The bakery opened at five.”
He grunted, an ambiguous sound that could mean anything. I flipped a pancake, careful not to let it tear, then started a new batch in the second pan. My hands were steady, but my heart tried to jackhammer out of my chest.
Rawley watched me. Not just casual, but with a focus that felt like a heat lamp. It made my face burn, but I kept at it, stacking finished pancakes on a plate and sliding them under a tea towel to keep warm.
