Page 17

Not enough meat, he says.

I’d kill for some meat.

“Here.” He jogs down his front steps, plate extended.

My curiosity about what he’s brought overrides my hunger, and I’m definitely not expecting the two slices of bread covered in butter and jam. Questioning whether it’s poisoned doesn’t even occur to me as I drop to sit on the ground and dig in. The flavor of the berries in the jam explodes on my tongue, and I moan shamelessly as I shovel as much into my mouth as I can. It’s so fucking good.

“Tell Wilde to take you to the Pickards’ and the Raylons’.”

My mouth is too full to reply beyond a weird grunt.

“Jean baked the bread, and her wife, Cookie, makes the butter. Grace makes every flavor of jam you can think of. I’m sure they’ll take pity on you.”

“Grace?” I ask as I swallow a chunk. “As in the one who just gave me a lecture?”

I swear Lynx almost smiles. “She’s a very smart girl.”

“There’s no way in hell she’s going to give me anything.”

“You really need to figure out how things work around here.”

“I already have.” I pop the last bite into my mouth and talk around it. “Exploitation. You want something, you do a billion years of manual labor to get it.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Barely.” I hesitate before holding the plate up to him. “Thank you.”

Lynx stares at me for a whole two seconds. “Yeah. Okay.” Then he takes the plate and heads back inside with it.

I have no idea if he’s coming back out here or not, so I strip off the hoodie he lent me, tie it around my waist, and head for the crop fields. I’m not happier to be working today than I was yesterday, but at least I’m not frustrated to high hell. My thoughts keep looping back to this morning and how bizarre it all was. In my mind, Lynx is the town psychopath. Unpredictable and dangerous. Apparently, that psychopath has a heart.

The way he talks about his pack … I wouldn’t go all the way and say that there was affection there, but his tone held a level of ownership over them. Like he takes their safety personally. Maybe even against his will. Then don’t even get me started on all that superstition and magic stuff.

I pause in my digging to tug the glove further up my hand.

Nothing about him makes sense. The bloodlust, the knives, the salt lines and sandwiches. When I asked which one was the real him, he said both, but there’s no way that both are possible.

You can’t be more than one person, and while I’ve seen how the nicest men can have the darkest skeletons, it’s also proven that one side is always an act.

So which is it for him?

The knife-wielding murderer.

Or the child-loving protector with a side of whimsy.

I can’t stick around long enough to find out.

A glass of water appears in front of my face like a mirage. I didn’t even realize how dry my mouth had gotten working in the sun, but it hits me now. I take the glass from the offering hand and gulp down half before I pause for air.

“Thanks.”

Lynx doesn’t answer me.

“You’re welcome, Sasha,” I say in an exaggerated voice. “It was really appreciated, Lynx⁠—”

“Don’t mention it.”

“See? You do know pleasantries.”