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“I didn’t accuse you of anything. I answered the only question you asked me that I could safely answer. I don’t want my glasses broken, I have no idea who you are, and past experience tells me that there’s absolutely no way to tell what kind of a man will strike a woman. My glasses have been broken twice, and you know how the saying goes.”
A look of something like surprise flickers across his face. “I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”
My cheeks heat. Is this a saying the fellowship made up? Will I look like an outsider that easily?
“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—”
“Shame on me,” he finishes. “Right.”
Another perplexed look while he runs his finger across his chin again. For one moment, I’m actually glad my predominant feeling right now is fear, because if it wasn’t…I’m not sure I’m comfortable with what might take its place.
“And three times,” I say in a rush of words, because it seems like it’s the only thing that saves me right now and words, I can do. “I mean that would be the utmost display of foolishness, would it not? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.”
A long, hard blink. “Shakespeare had a few things right, didn’t he?”
He shakes himself, as if waking from a dream or getting his wits about him, which surprises me because he doesn’t seem like a man that’s easily ruffled. HaveIruffled him? And if I have, why does that give me a strange sense of power?
For long moments he doesn’t speak, but only rakes his eyes over my body, unashamed and unencumbered. I look down at myself, my cheeks flaming when I see my worn, rumpled dress, my bare feet, the tops dusty from all the walking I did, my bedraggled hair. I watch his brows draw together and his eyes flash with anger.
“I’m not usually this… messy,” I whisper, embarrassed by my appearance. “I came on a bus and I left yesterday morning and I—”
I freeze when he reaches for my shoulder. The barest touch of his finger against my skin makes me shiver from nerves. He’s so close. Men aren’t allowed to touch women they’re not married to, and I don’t even know this man’s name.
“Who did this to you?”
I look down. One of the buttons on my shoulder’s come undone, baring my bruised skin. I quickly lift the flap of fabric back up to cover my skin. He can’t see me like this. No one can.
I shake my head. “Why so many questions?” I say in a whisper, turning away from him. The more he asks me, the more tempted I am to lie, and I can’t tell a lie.
“I found a real life Goldilocks sleeping in one of my beds, who won’t even tell me her name, much less why she’s here.” He steps a bit closer to me. I can see flecks of gold in his eyes. He smells like fire and spice.
Oh.
Oh, no.
He’s the owner. Of course he is. Who else would he be?
“I’m so sorry,” I say, gathering up my little bag and slipping my shoes on. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I was only…tired,” I say with a sigh. “And I didn’t know where I could go that was safe.”
He growls, deep and low in his chest. I step back and fall onto the bed. “You’re definitely not safe here.”
And yet, he hasn’t hurt me or threatened me.
Yet.
“You’re afraid,” he mutters.
I nod.
“Oh. So shecantell the truth.”
I swallow hard before I answer. “It’s the only thing I tell.”
“Is it? Then tell me who put these bruises on you.”
I have to tell him. A part of me is afraid to, while another part of me wants to tellsomeone.He’s angry and fierce butstrong.So strong.
But I don’t trust men, I remind myself.
