With tears beading at the corners of her eyes, Grace wrangles him into the stables, collapses onto a bench in the barn, and tries and fails to move her right arm. After a few ragged breaths, she psychs herself up enough to slowly trudge back to the bunkhouse, where she’d very much like to swallow about six Advil and pass out.
The other hands are concerned when she walks in—the state of her must be something quite alarming if their faces are any indication—but she waves them off, telling them she just got the wind knocked out of her and needs to sleep it off. They seem wary, watching her as she struggles to lie in her bunk, grimacing and hissing the entire way down. Forty comes by at some point, but Grace’s vision is blurry enough that she can hardly make out the salt-and-pepper beard and the concerned eyes. She tells him she’s fine, just exhausted. When she apologizes for not helping with dinner, he tells her she doesn’t need to do anything but sleep.
She tries to do just that, but it’s fitful at best. She keeps leaning on her arm and being awoken by a shooting pain that radiates through her entire body. She pushes herself up against the wall, lying flat and still like she’s in a coffin, hoping the barrier will keep her from moving in her sleep. She’s right there—juston the verge of falling into a blissful oblivion—when a deep, unfortunately familiar voice interrupts her almost-slumber.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
“Wake up, Grace.”
Grace doesn’t know who says the words. Frankly, she doesn’tcare. Her eyelids make a feeble attempt to open but only flutter, too heavy to do anything else.
“ ’M sleepin’,” she mumbles, letting her drooping eyelids fall shut once again.
“Grace,” the voice repeats, tone firm enough to tell her it isn’t going to let up.
Grace frowns, coming back to full consciousness regretfully fast. Slowly, she forces her eyes to blink open, and then, for a fraction of a moment, she doesn’t know where she is.
What happens next feels like it’s in slow motion. Still half-asleep, she reaches beneath her pillow with her good arm, somehow possessing the wherewithal to leave the injured one alone, and grabs on to the hilt of her knife. Her grip is ironlike as she yanks it from its hiding place and swings it toward the strange, deep, stern voice. Only when the tip of it is pressed into a tanned, stubble-covered neck does she fully come to, remembering herself and her surroundings.
Grace gasps, letting the knife fall from her hand and onto the bed with a quietthump. She glances frantically around the bunkhouse, humiliation tempered only slightly by the fact that no one else seems to have witnessed such an outburst.
Crew is unmoved and weirdly calm, considering she had every intention of slicing clean through his jugular only seconds ago. His eyebrow is kinked, and he looks more…annoyed than anything else. Like she poses about as much danger as a Chihuahua.
“You oughta be careful with that thing,” he says quietly, evenly. “Could hurt yourself.”
Irritation flares in her belly right alongside theembarrassment. She lets herself lie back down, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave. When he doesn’t, she turns her head and maintains eye contact with him for a brief moment to utter, “Go away.”
“No.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from her. “You’re hurt.”
“So?”
“So, I’m going to help you.”
She nearly laughs. “That’s rich.”
“Sit up.”
“Go away.”
“Grace,” he says, and the second she feels his hand touch her arm, she can’t help it. It’s an old reflex, born out of necessity and anger and, presently, irritation.
“Don’ttouch me,” Grace growls. Her voice cuts through the pleasant murmurs from the dining room, and all their conversations begin to quiet.
Crew’s hands fly upward as he backs away, completely removing himself from her personal space. Maybe he’d been a little less unmoved by a knife at this throat than she thought. He assesses her calmly for a moment before turning to look at the dinner table. Grace keeps her stare trained straight ahead so she doesn’t see exactly who he’s looking to, but whoever it is, they seem to be able to read a silent command in Crew’s expression. Within seconds, there are sounds of the ranch hands grabbing their plates and silverware and shuffling out through the swinging door; it closes softly behind them, and then Crew and Grace are completely alone in the bunkhouse.
A long beat passes and then his eyes soften—just a touch. “I’m trying to help you.”
Through gritted teeth, Grace spits back, “Why? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
His brow pulls together. “What I wanted?”
“If I’m hurt and can’t keep training, you’ll have your reason to kick me off the ranch. Isn’t that what you want? I’m no good, untrustworthy, a bad seed. Sharing blood with Bellamy Whitlock means I’m not worthy of Halcyon. Right?”
The recognition, the remembrance washes over his face slowly. He sets both hands on his thighs and looks away from her. For a moment, Grace is sure he’s about to reprimand her for eavesdropping, especially when his jaw moves in that way it does when he’s frustrated or growing impatient. But then he says, “I didn’t know you were listening,” and his voice is raspy and sounds suspiciously close to regretful.
Grace swallows, grimacing at the dry, sandpapery feeling of her mouth. “Would you have said something else if you did?”
His lips twitch, and though she can see only one side of his mouth, the corner of it pulls up just slightly. He says nothing, which is answer enough. Grace shakes her head, sitting up fully in her bunk and grimacing as she pushes herself back against the slats until she’s completely upright and there’s a wide berth between them. A tense silence settles over the room until she finally clears her throat and says, “I’m nothing like him.” Crew looks at her. In this light, his eyes are deceptively soft. Open. Thoughtful. There are flecks of green amid the amber and chocolate in his irises. He hardly blinks as his eyes hold hers. His lack of response is unnerving, and, growing more irritated with every passing second, Grace adds, “You don’t know me.”
