Page 44 of Love You To Pieces

“No, I think you did a pretty good job of that too.” Deacon’s taunting gaze holds my eyes. “She saw us last night, lover.”

My stomach twists, and a jolt goes up my spine as Fox looks up at me in surprise. “You did?”

“I didn’t⁠—”

“Oh, she did,” Deacon is quick to interject in his teasing drawl. “After we heard her scurrying around the house, she apparently decided to be a little spy. She was standing out in the hallway. We didn’t close the door all the way, I guess.” He doesn’t seem very put out by it. His eyes dance, the blue of his irises is almost bioluminescent in his mirth. “Did you enjoy watching Fox⁠—”

“I didn’t see anything.” Denying his words before he can finish the statement, not wanting to hear what he could come up with. “I didn’t see…much,” I have to amend, however, when he narrows his eyes and tilts his head just enough that he doesn’t have to call me a liar out loud. “It was an accident. I didn’t know.”

Fox sighs, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling like he’s asking God for divine intervention, or maybe just the patience to deal with Deacon. He lets out another huff and gets to his feet, boots making soft noises on the hardwood floor as he leaves the dining room to disappear around the wall into the kitchen.

Which leaves me with Deacon, who’s still staring at me like a cat who’s eaten every canary on the block and is looking at the only survivor. His gaze is downright predatory, and his smile is less than friendly. “Hope you’re hungry,” he hums. “We made dinner special, just for you.”

As if on cue, Fox comes back with a basket of biscuits that he puts down on the table, a butter dish going down beside it. The sight of food makes my stomach nearly claw up my throat in need, and I can already feel my mouth watering. My hands itch to grab for the biscuits like a gremlin and drag the basked all toward me while hissing and keeping the boys away.

At least until Fox comes back again and sets down two more plates. The first looks innocent enough, and the potatoes and carrots are steaming, heaped high with butter, with steam curling toward me like a cartoon pie waving me forward.

No, the vegetables aren’t the problem.

The meat is.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was veal. Though my experience with it has been limited to my parents splurging on their favorite meal for big anniversaries. My stomach turns at the smell that’s not quite right, and I’m halfway to my feet when Fox suddenly leans across the table, his hands on the wood and a smile on his lips.

“Something I can get you?” he asks, his gaze on mine and much steadier than my racing thoughts will allow.

“I—” My eyes go to the plate, then back at him. From the corner of my eye, I see Deacon grin and sit back with a glass of tea in his hand, his attention on us like we’re his favorite sitcom. “I can’t do this.”

Fox doesn’t answer. He glances back down at my chair, pointedly, and stands there, unmoving, matching my pose.

I can’t do this.

“You’re making a big deal over nothing,” he murmurs in a voice that’s definitely supposed to be comforting. “Don’t turn this into something it isn’t. Not to mention…” He looks down and gently moves the basket of biscuits away from my outspread fingers. “Mrs. Hewitt’s biscuits are the best biscuits you’ll ever put in your mouth. Let’s try not to spill them all over the place, all right? I like your dog a lot, but if we have to give these to her and the chickens, I’ll be pretty upset.”

Chickens? My mind searches for signs of livestock on the property, but I can’t recall seeing even a coop. “You have chickens?”

“Of course we have chickens,” Deacon scoffs, already tearing apart a biscuit on his plate. “You just haven’t seen them. We don’t need some frantic, out of her mind guest”—he puts emphasis on the word that makes me shiver—“trampling all over them.”

“I wouldn’t hurt an animal.” My words come out just as offended as I feel and I sit down hard, shocked by the accusation. “I’d never do that.” Hell, I haven’t even tried to hurt either of them. Though, quite frankly, I’m willing to change that if they won’t let me out. If hurting or threatening either of them is what it’ll take to get out of here, that’s definitely a line I’m willing to cross.

After all, it wouldn’t be the first time this week I’ve done something drastic to save my life.

Fox sits down after a second as well, though he keeps his eyes on me like I might bolt. Not that he’s wrong for doing so, given that I would if I could.

But somehow, I’m pretty sure the door is still just as locked as it was every time I’ve tried it.

My eyes drop back down to the table as Deacon continues talking about chickens. Something about the coop, its placement, and needing to make sure they have a safe enclosure, though his words go in one ear and out the other for me. My attention focuses on the large platters, on the little leaves decorating the outside of the china and the gold-painted edges that’re a little chipped in places from all the times the dishes were used, washed and dried, then put back up.

There’s even a little chip missing from the meat platter, and I stare at that instead of looking anywhere else. It feels dangerous to look so close to the main dish itself. Especially when I have a sinking feeling that I know the meat isn’t pork, or beef, or actually veal.

Please, God, let me be wrong, I pray. Though he’s definitely never answered me before, and I doubt he’s rushing to open the heavens now to give me the answer I need.

“I’m not hungry,” I say finally, as my ears ring and drown out the voices of the two men. “I’m not hungry. Please, just let me go back.” I hate the way it sounds like I’m begging, but I can’t stop looking at the platter of meat that’s still steaming from the oven.

“That’s rude.” Without preamble, Deacon grabs the large fork on the meat platter and stabs into a slice of meat. I flinch as he picks it up and brings it to his plate, where he’s careful to set it next to his carrots and potatoes, instead of letting them touch. The fork then goes to Fox, who shakes his head at the blond.

“You’re rude,” he scoffs good-naturedly. While I stare at him, he sets down the fork and picks up the platter of potatoes and carrots. Without asking me, Fox deposits a spoonful of them onto my plate, along with a biscuit. “Just eat, would you? Before Deacon has to do an IV.”

When I glance at the blond, he glances up at me without amusement. “EMT,” he reminds me through a mouthful of food. “No dying of dehydration or low blood sugar on my watch.” Theatrically, he gives me a thumbs-up and then stabs into another piece of meat while I watch. His crooked smile is wicked as he brings it to his mouth without looking away, and I’m the one who breaks eye contact when he bites down.