Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“How do you know?”
“Because I live here,” he points out.
Right.
“That all you need?” he finally says, as if he can’t wait to get out of here.
My belly sinks a little.
“There was a guy this morning, came over, was talking about cattle, but he was asking weird questions.”
This grabs his interest. “He give you a name?”
“Ralston or something like that.”
“Ralston Cupp,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ bad news. He shows up again, you tell me.”
My heart tightens. “He was asking weird things, like if I was alone here. Now he knows I sleep in my car, I’m not really very happy about that.”
He sighs, and then without another word, he walks right past me. “C’mon then,” he calls. “I’ll help you fix up a room so you can sleep inside. Even if it means I die of black mold.”
He doesn’t wait for me to argue. I go after him, and for the next hour, we clean the room I already mostly did when I got here. He fixes all the holes, ensuring nothing can sneak in at night, and goes into town, getting a new window to replace the broken one. I scrub walls and floors, washing every surface, and when it’s done, it actually looks kind of homely.
“Didn’t think we could actually get this place lookin’ good,” Knox murmurs, his shirt stuck to his body with sweat.
Then, he reaches for the hem and pulls it over his head, leaving me staring, completely stunned.
Knox is all muscle and ink, and for a second I’m reduced to just staring, unable to look away. I’ve seen bodies before. I’ve even seen good ones, defined abs and arms chiseled out of summer work, but nothing like this. He is a walking canvas. Blackwork bands spiral up both arms. There’s a crow on his chest ripping apart a cherry, and a coil of thorns circles his waist, vanishing under his belt.
He is pure perfection.
He wipes his forehead, catches me looking, and his mouth quirks very slightly. Not smug, not quite, but knowing. “Gonna keep starin’ or you wanna help me fill this air mattress.”
I snap back to myself, cheeks humming with heat. “It’s just you have a... lot of tattoos,” I blurt, instantly regretting the words.
He snorts, leaning down to attach the pump to the bed. He fills it with air, effortlessly, then stands up straight again, stretching. I look away this time. He shoves the garbage bag out the door and slings his shirt over his shoulder. “Got a mini fridge you can use while you’re here, and I’ll bring you some sheets.”
“Thank you,” I say, because it’s all I can manage.
He leaves, each step echoing in the empty house, and I let myself lean against the fresh, patched wall, heart skipping around in my chest. I think about his tattoos, his effortless power, the way he never tries to make himself likable. He is who he is, and he doesn't apologize for it.
The problem is, who he is, is my cousin’s man and not mine.
He’ll never be mine.
I need to put my mind back into finishing this house and getting the hell out of here.
4
Iwake up the next morning and, for a minute, relish the fact that I actually got some sleep last night. Now I’m not terrified of the creatures coming for me when the sun goes down. The air mattress isn’t comfortable, but it’s a hell of a lot better than my car.
The sun is rising in a blinding, perfect square through the window, illuminating every speck of floating dust, and I can hear the cows somewhere beyond the house. I lay there for a minute, preparing myself for the day ahead. I have so much to do, and it feels like I’m not getting anywhere.
Exhaling, I force myself up and tug on what I think is a clean pair of shorts. Then I grab the work boots I unearthed from the barn, tie my hair up with a rubber band, and head out to see if I can befriend Daisy before starting my day. I am determined for this cow to like me, even if every single time I approach her, she looks murderous.
As suspected, Daisy, the demon cow, is waiting right by the gate.
I freeze. She freezes. Her eyes, which are neither warm nor soulful but rather calculating and faintly iridescent, narrow at me. I know she remembers pinning me in the barn. I know she’s plotting another attack. She’s not going to get the upper hand this time. No sir.
“I have bread for you,” I say, waving it in her face.
She snorts, jerking back, like I am the scum of the earth.
“Fine,” I snap, giving it to a nosy cow who sidles up beside her. “Another day you miss out.”
I go through a gate far enough away that she can’t charge me, doing my usual checks on food and water for the cows. I am about to turn and head to the house when I notice something in the paddock by the road. Three fence wires twist-sprung apart, their ends curling back like angry fingers. The posts, which should be snug in the clay, have been pried loose.