His mouth curls up in a half smile, his eyes full of phantoms. “They always move on, Beau. That’s why I need you.”
My eyes travel over his face, hurting for his pain. “You always have me, Dom. Always.”
He swallows hard, and ducks his head to examine his compass for a beat too long.
My own throat feels a little thick, and I stand. I offer him my hand, and he stares at it before he takes it. I pull him to his feet, and then into a tight hug. He squeezes me back, pressing his face into my shoulder, and it’s like he’s squeezing my heart through my chest.
I miss my friend. I don’t want to abandon The Plan.
When he has himself together, he steps back and nods in the direction of town.
I follow him . . . and start my plotting.
I need to figure out how to make the asshole fall for Eden. Whatever he thinks, we need a third. Someone smart, someone kind—someone who can soothe over the scar tissue that’s forming between us.
We need Eden.
But I have to get Dom on board, because no matter what he’s afraid of, I could never choose anyone over our friendship.
Chapter 10
Eden
SURVIVAL TIP #166
Don’t upset large predators.
Watch, listen, and learn . . . and maybe they won’t eat you alive.
T he next week passes quickly, and I have the days more or less to myself. Dom and Beau headed out the day after I arrived to collect some essentials, and Lucky seems to spend most of his time hunting. One day, he even came back grinning as he dragged a 120-pound deer carcass behind him and into the stinky meat shed I try to avoid. Jaykob has been hiding out in his workshop in the large barn, with only the occasional clang and loud grunt alerting me to his presence.
Jasper was neatly helpful after the others took off, showing me where to find fresh bandages for my arm and taking me on a brief tour around the garden, which I offered to take over maintaining. After that, he mostly kept his distance . . . except that, every other day, I receive a new book with neat, handwritten annotations in the margin. The librarian in me wanted to cry when I first saw them, but for some reason, I haven’t said anything.
Maybe it’s because, tucked in the neat swirls of his pen, a sharp, mischievous humor soaks through the pages. Seeing my old friends— Frankenstein, The Hobbit, Pride and Prejudice—through Jasper’s eyes is a seductively intimate experience.
I discovered he empathizes with Victor Frankenstein’s flaws, and that his heart shatters over the creature’s unending rejection, hating it with a level of addictive loathing I don’t quite understand but am endlessly fascinated by. I know that he doesn’t share Bilbo’s reckless inclination toward adventure, sympathizing instead with the steady rhythms and quiet life of the Shire hobbits. And I learned he loves the word “ardently,” and that he thinks Elizabeth Bennett is a “saucy minx”—a scribble that startled peals of laughter from me.
Some nights, I even find myself curling up in the downstairs sitting room before the crackling fire, and he joins me, elegantly draped in the large armchair opposite my own. We quietly turn our pages and sip our steaming tea, and I work hard not to stare at him in the flickering firelight. And work very hard not to notice the coiled intent in his dark eyes as he stares back. The male need under his cool demeanor.
Despite my curiosity, I’m grateful for his silence—for the breathing room they’ve all given me. I’ve needed the space to catch my breath. Despite their distance, I still feel overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by this new world, by their story, by the sudden, abrupt rush of grief-relief over losing my safe haven of the past four years.
Most of all, I’m overwhelmed by them.
Masculine energy pulses in every nook and line of this place, from the tools, weaponry, and rigorous security to the overabundance of meat and the size of all their clothes in the washing basket, all the way down to the clean, pleasantly male scents that permeate the house.
It may be elegantly presented. Tidy. Oh-so expensive. But it’s unmistakable.
It makes me feel strange. Overtly female. Every example of their hard discipline makes me hyperaware of my softness. The height at which they keep the showerhead reminds me how small I am. Even the size and weight of the heavy doors makes me feel fragile. This is a man’s house, and it is aggressively obvious that men own this space.
I was raised by my grandmother, and lived barely more than a full year in total over my marriage with a man who didn’t have an ounce of this virile presence. I’ve never felt anything like it. And after years of fending for myself, of the unending responsibility, and dirt, and toil, it’s so lovely to allow myself to be soft. Just a little. Just for a while.
As the days pass and I’m able to think, to relax, I reach the uncomfortable realization that, despite the tremendous onslaught of new, I don’t feel threatened here. Or if I do, it’s in a secret, delicious way that I struggle to admit even to myself. I feel protected. Pliant. I want to yield to the strength around me. It makes me want to temper some of the harshness, to balance it somehow, though I’m not sure where to begin.
Or if I’m allowed to make that kind of impression here under the strict, subservient terms of our deal.
Being constrained by their rules bothers me, but I can’t put my finger on why. Between my strict grandmother and my perfectionist husband, I should be used to living by the whims of others. Why does it feel so strange to me now? Perhaps I’m just out of practice. I’ve spent a long time making decisions for myself, after all.
It’s like I’ve grown a new skin over these last few years—one thicker and steelier than I had before. Perhaps that old skin of mine is just too thin, too soft, to contain me now.
Can I force myself back into the person I was before?
Do I want to?
The thoughts are uncomfortable, but ultimately useless to me. I know what I signed up for, and my feelings don’t matter.
Survival does. And maybe, if I’m very lucky, I will have the chance to not be alone. I can give up my independence for that, I think.
I have to.
I can’t take another year by myself.
Eventually, I find a gentle rhythm to my days. I throw myself into the huge vegetable garden, enjoying the familiar task amid the upheaval of the last few weeks. I tend my now almost-healed wounds and play in the ridiculous kitchen. The decadence of my room hasn’t worn off, and I soak myself in scalding water each night, luxuriating in the soft soaps and scented oils.
And I suffer through my least favorite self-allocated task—washing and mending clothes. Today I decided to move a large tub near the apple tree so I could work outside. It’s a messy job, and I’m tired of cleaning suds from the laundry floor.
Instead, I’m outside and up to my elbows in soapy water as dusk descends into magenta and moonlight. Hazy stars tease twinkle-bright over the towering trees, and the temperature has dropped enough to lend a nip to the apple-scented breeze.
I’m hopeful Jaykob might be able to fix the broken washing machine Lucky mentioned soon—though the way Jaykob scowled when he saw me scrubbing clothes the other day didn’t exactly inspire hope that he’ll help me out. The memory of my awkward little wave and the abrupt way he stalked past me still makes me cringe.
With a stifled sigh, I pull the final item from the hamper—and blush when I realize it’s a pair of black boxer briefs.