“One hundred thousand?” she whispers, so low as to be almost inaudible.
“Yes,” I rasp. “Six figures. You’re worth it, Katherine. Never think of yourself as less than that.”
She’s silent for a moment, staring at her small hands.
“I was always going to let you do it, you know,” she says. “You don’t have to buy it.”
“I’m not buying it,” I say, but the words sound cheap even to my own ears. “I just—” I stop.
She stands, walks past me, and for a second, I think she’s going to touch my arm or my face. She doesn’t.
Instead, she says in a wobbly voice, “I’d appreciate a direct deposit,” and goes up the stairs without another word.
I stay there, in the cold kitchen, staring at the empty chairs and the untouched bread.
I should feel victorious because I got what I wanted. Kat accepted my money, and didn’t cry, didn’t run. She even made me dinner, and ate it with composure.
But I can feel that something’s off. The young girl is taking my money, and it’s a lot of money, but I also can tell that she doesn’t want it for some reason.
I sit at the table, alone, as the evening sinks into night. I crave the young woman’s innocence … but at what price?
8
CHAPTER EIGHT – THE HERMIT’S WARNING
Kat
The next day, I don’t see Talon all morning, and I’m grateful. I don’t know if I could look him in the eye at the moment, knowing that I’ve effectively sold my virginity for a hundred thousand dollars. But it’s been done, and I have no doubt that he’ll consummate our relationship sooner or later. When though? How? My thighs squeeze together with hot anticipation because the truth is that I want it. He was painfully big yesterday, but at the same time, I was incredibly aroused by the feel of that large male body and his obvious desire for me. Iwantmy first time to be with Talon. Iwantto come apart in his arms, shuddering as he makes me a woman once and for all.
But I have no idea where the alpha male is at the moment. The house is quieter than usual, the only sound the fridge’s occasional sigh and the soft tick of the grandfather clock. I make breakfast, eat half of it, and sit in silence for a few minutes. Then, I decide that the only cure for my edgy mood is the cold, sharp air of the forest.
So I take a woven basket from the pantry—one of those fancy French ones with leather handles—and creep out into the woods to gather herbs. The sky is low and gray, pressing the world flat, and the trees look like the veins of a giant, spidery hand clawing at the clouds. The ground is carpeted in old needles and patches of snow. I can see my breath when I exhale. I try to pretend it’s steam, that I’m a dragon, or maybe just a girl whose heart isn’t going a hundred miles an hour.
With every step, I try to process what happened yesterday. Not the mechanics—those are easy, those are already stamped on my curves, and in my mind. No, it’s the feeling of a slow throb of want and desire, the sense of having crossed the Rubicon and waiting in anticipation for what comes next.
Who am I now? Am I still a person, or am I just a product? Am I a girl, a woman, or someone new altogether, bred in a greenhouse of NDAs and direct deposits? My brain is so muddled and confused. I bend to pluck a sprig of wild rosemary, and my fingers shake.
I wander deeper, until the house is out of sight, then deeper still. There’s something comforting about the way the trees cluster around me, muffling the world. My basket fills with thyme and wild mint, the leaves frosted at the edges. I even find a patch of nettle, and though it stings, I add it anyway, pressing the bright green into the nest of stems. There’s a lesson in that somewhere. I’m not sure if it’s about pain, or endurance, or just being the kind of woman who seizes the opportunity, even if it comes laced with pain.
I’m crouched by a fallen log, pulling at a stubborn root, when I smell smoke.
Not the distant tang of a chimney, but real, living, burning wood. It’s coming from the west, down where the slope dips toward the old riverbed. I hesitate, heart ticking up, then follow the scent because it’s sweet somehow. It’s definitely man-made, and I had no idea that there were neighbors in the vicinity.
Sure enough, the smoke leads me to a clearing shaded with small saplings. There’s a cabin here, smaller than Talon’s, built from rough logs stacked with messy pride. A ring of stones circles a smoking firepit, where someone’s laid a grid of sticks across the flames. Over the fire, an enamel kettle rattles with the force of its boiling.
And next to the fire, crouched on a stump and whittling a stick with a stubby folding knife, is a man.
He’s old—well, not ancient, but at least sixty, with a white beard and skin like sun-baked leather. He wears a faded green vest over a red checked shirt, sleeves rolled to elbows with fingers that look strong enough to crack walnuts bare-handed. His palms are flat and big, and he probably built this place and buried a few things under it, too.
The old man looks up when he hears me, but doesn’t stop whittling.
“Lost?” he croaks, sounding a bit like a gnome. Or maybe a hobbit or troll?
I open my mouth, then close it. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“Just out foraging,” I manage, holding up the basket in explanation.
The hobbit snorts. “Nothing but pine needles and coyote shit out here.” But his eyes are kind, or at least not unkind. He gestures to a rickety camp chair. “You want a seat?”
