Just pain.
I’ve had worse.
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, then grab my phone, checking for any messages from Sutton, but there’s nothing. The screen is empty, just like the space beside me. I pace the living room, stopping occasionally to look out the window toward the guest house.
Is she okay?
Is she crying?
Is she packing her bags?
That last thought sends a spike of panic through me. I can’t lose her. Not like this. Not without understanding what happened.
I grab my phone and pull up her name in my contacts then stop before hitting send. Pushing her right now might just drive her further away. I drop the phone on the couch and rake my hands through my damp hair, frustration building in my chest alongside the physical pain.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to go to her, but I force myself to stay put. My eyes drift to the clock. It’s been almost two hours since we got home, and she hasn’t gone to bed yet. What am I supposed to do?
Fuck this. I can’t just sit here.
26
SHEPHERD
The familiar smell of sawdust and wood stain greets me as I flip on the lights of the garage. My workshop is the one place where everything makes sense. Where problems have solutions. Where broken things can be made whole again.
I grab a block of cherry wood I’ve been saving and secure it in the lathe. There’s something about the wood—the way it feels solid and warm under my fingers, the way it holds secrets in its grain—that calms the storm inside me. I flip the switch, and the machine hums to life, drowning out the thoughts racing through my head.
I lose myself in the work, letting muscle memory guide my hands. The wood turns against the blade, shavings falling at my feet like autumn leaves. With each pass, the shape emerges, something small and delicate. I don’t plan these things anymore. My hands know what they want to create before my mind catches up.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I nearly slice my finger open in my rush to grab it thinking it’s Sutton.
But it’s just Killian.
Kill
You still up?
Me
Yeah.
Kill
She talk to you yet?
Me
No.
I set the phone down and return to the lathe. The wood takes form beneath my touch, a small teacup with delicate sides that curve like water frozen in motion. My ribs ache with every movement, but the pain keeps me present, keeps me from spiraling into the dark places my mind wants to go.
I don’t know how long I’ve been working when I hear it; the soft click of the door connecting the garage to the house. My hands are still on the lathe, but I don’t turn around. I can feel her presence, hesitant and uncertain in the doorway.
“Does it hurt?” Sutton’s voice is quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the machine.
I switch off the lathe, the sudden silence deafening. “My ribs?” I ask, still not turning. “Or something else?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She moves farther into my space, the sanctuary I’ve created for myself that now holds her too.
