Chet’s feet thudded closer as my eyes shot to the doorknob. Every time Chet came stumbling back from his benders, he always went for the same door.
My door.
The door I’d forgotten to lock behind me after Noah ripped my heart from my chest and stomped on it.
Chet crouched down, resting uneasily on the balls of his feet. His knuckle grazed the side of my breast, dragging my top with it, and I froze.
“Pretty, pretty girl. I missed your birthday yesterday.”
My eyes widened as panic clogged my throat. Chet was a drunkard, but he knew touching a minor would land him in jail. Touching a woman of age, though? It would be hearsay—and Alliston Springs had never been kind to me in that regard.
His laugh curdled my stomach as his hand reached for his belt. “I think it’s time I wished you a happy birthday. What do ya say?”
I pinched my eyes closed and squeezed my legs shut as my hands worked me back another inch, maybe two, at best. It was no use.
I was trapped.
The sounds of his buckle hitting the floor forced bile up, and as I turned to heave, Chet yanked my legs, sending me flat to my back. My head turned just before I could choke on whatever I’d eaten that day.
Perhaps that was the moment that I wished I could go back to.
I should’ve just choked and been done with it all.
41
Carver
The Reason
Aflash of metal caught the corner of my eye as Lyra returned home. I dusted off my hands, dirtied by the flakes I’d filled both horses’ troughs with, swiping them over my jeans, then called out to my wife.
When she didn’t turn, I cupped my hands around my mouth.
I was just about to repeat the action and took in a large breath.
The second she turned around with her hand on the door, my heart sank. She didn't look like herself. She looked like the life had been drained from her.
I bolted from the barn and ran with long strides to where she remained frozen in place. As my arms wrapped around her, she buckled in my hold, threatening to fall to the ground.
I scooped her into my arms, whispering that everything was going to be okay. That I was here. That I loved her with every piece of myself I had to give.
Kicking the door to our bedroom open, I laid her out on the bed and finally took her in. Lyra had never looked small to me. She’d never looked defeated or paled over. Not to this extent. Pressing a palm to her forehead, I checked for warmth.
Heat. A fever?
No.
She curled in on herself as my hand slipped down, checking her pulse.
That was fine, too.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I asked on a fading breath, my lungs struggling. “What happened?”
Her focus didn’t shift from the window as she said, “Jeans are in the truck.” She sounded robotic.
“Jeans are in the truck,” I repeated, breaking each word apart like that would tell me why she returned home looking more dead than alive. “You want me to go get them for you?”
She didn’t move. Just blinked.
