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From the looks of it, it’s not an easy discussion. An altercation, some kind of heated talks.
The mustache man finally waves at his assistant who’d pulled the dolly out of the airplane, and Priscilla plunks the cub back into the big blue tub.
Wayne puts the lid back on the container, and the dolly-man picks it up, carrying it to the plane’s yawning cargo hold.
My heart dives in my chest.
Mustache Bastard mutters a few more mushy-looking words to Priscilla, and she nods, her frustration fading off her face.
They shake hands before returning to their vehicles, their crisis seemingly defused.
The plane takes off in no time.
Then Bordell collects the lights, loading them in the truck. A minute later, they’re gone like they were never there, leaving nothing but still, eerie silence.
The entire scene probably lasted less than ten minutes. But I know it’ll affect me for the rest of my life.
My knees are weak. My nerves are tangled ropes. My breath clogs my lungs.
Mostly, my eyes fucking burn for that poor baby lion.
And for Tilda, losing one of her cubs like this.
I try to walk across the room, try to breathe, but my knees don’t want to work any better than my lungs.
I just know I’m more thankful than ever for Grady’s arms, which catch me from behind, pinning me to his huge, warm slab of a chest.
He holds me upright like a redwood, slowly turning me around to catch my tears in his shirt.
When my face touches his fabric, inhaling his scent, I’m absolutely over.
His shirt must be soaked with my grief by the end of it.
“Grady, w-we...we have to—”
“We’ll figure this out,” he promises, his voice pure summer thunder again. “Bruce, the cub, the sadists running that place...I made sure the cameras got everything. I’ll show it to Faulk, and somehow, some way, we’ll get it sorted. Don’t doubt me.”
I don’t, even when every frayed thread of hope in my head wants to.
Grady’s words come straight from the heart.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and this man is courage incarnate.
“You know we’re gonna fix this, right? You trust me?” he asks, his very cadence so soothing.
I nod, but I can’t unsee that sweet helpless cub in my head.
The image keeps repeating like an old video reel from Satan’s crawlspace, a gut-punch reminder of just how heartless, savage, and cruel this world can be.
“I-I should have stopped it. Before I grabbed Bruce, I mean,” I say, shaking through my words. “I just...I didn’t know. I didn’t know if they would hurt me, but I should have stopped it!”
“Woman, you’re stopping it now,” he growls back. “This shit takes time, so take my patience in the meantime. And you’re right, if you’d breathed a word without being safe first, there’s no telling what these people would do.”
I don’t know what he means until he squeezes me so tight I forget my pain.
For a hot, anguished second, I’m so sweetly bundled up in this gorgeous man that there’s nothing but us.
Nothing but his words and warrior-throated promises.
“How, though?” I whisper, lifting my head. “How the hell do we stop them?”
He presses his forehead against mine, urging me to hush. For a second, I’m equally scared and overwhelmed at the thought that he might kiss me to shut me up, his lips only inches away.
“We’ll figure it out. For now, it’s enough that you aren’t alone. You’ve got me and friends I’d trust with my life. I’ll exhaust every damn resource I’ve ever had to put a stop to this crap, Willow. I promise you, I want to save those critters, too.”
I’m beyond grateful for his help, his support, and his glorious strength pressed so snug against my body. But I’m still worried, still terrified for the animals.
“Time for bed,” he says, walking me to my room by the hand.
Just before the door closes, I pull back at his hand, lacing my fingers through his and holding on for dear life.
It’s almost silly how Gothic this feels—the moon splashing through the bedroom window, the halo on his face, the dark heat in his eyes, the freaking tiger in the barn, this sad, hot mess of passion and secrets we’ve become.
Call it absurd, or just my imagination, but an invisible, fraught message passes between us, silent as a grave.
We both whisper “good night,” almost simultaneously, but that’s not what I hear.
It’s something else, and it ripples off every beautiful inch of Grady like static.
You’re not alone anymore.
This is my fight.
This is my promise.
And somehow, after closing the door and collapsing in bed, a very confused part of my heart wants to believe he doesn’t just mean my quagmire with Exotic Plains.
I lay in bed for hours, too tired for sleep.
At least it’s a clear night. When counting imaginary sheep gets boring, I resort to staring out the window at the moon and stars and nothing in particular.
