Who is she? Why did she leave? What did she take that night two years ago without ever laying a hand on me? And why is Thomas Sterling of all people willing to see her carved into pieces? Rage simmers through my veins, hot enough to burn through years of conditioning, because somewhere out there is someone arrogant enough to believe they get to decide whether this woman lives or dies. That they get to close a chapter I’ve spent years trying to read. And by my hands, of all people. The fucking irony isn’t lost on me.
Years.
Watching from a distance, trying to understand the contradiction that was my little ghost. Holding onto the fragments of a woman who never gave me enough of herself away to be known, convincing myself that if I watched just a bit longer, if I paid justa little more attention, eventually what I’d missed would come to light. Instead, she disappeared like the ghost she’s always been in my life.
And now, someone else thinks they get to decide how her story ends, and it twists something ugly in my head. Fury. Hot, possessive, irrational fucking fury at the idea that someone out there thinks they have the right to take what’s mine. That they get to decide when she breathes her last breath. Slowly, the pressure leaves my finger until it rests against the guard instead, my rifle never leaving her chest even as the decision in my head changes.
I’ll do it.
Eventually.
Death can wait. But not before I know why she’s haunted me all these years.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WINTER
People laugh differently when they don’t have anything to be afraid of. I don’t think I noticed that before today. Maybe I did once, before all of this, but memories have become funny things. They disappear when I reach for them, like snowflakes melting the moment they land in my hands, leaving me wondering whether they were ever really there to begin with. So instead, I watch the people moving through the market, collecting little pieces of them the way other people collect flowers. The old woman with the bright blue scarf laughs through her nose before covering her mouth as though laughter is something she ought to apologize for. The baker’s little boy keeps trying to steal sugared almonds while his father pretends not to notice. I smile, because people are strange. Beautiful, but strange.
“I think you would like it too,” I whisper, turning another apple in my hands before rubbing a tiny dull patch with the sleeve of my cloak. “They laugh with their whole faces here.”
I pause, studying the little boy as he darts aroundthe corner of the stall before his father catches him by the back of his coat. “I don’t think I’ve seen anybody laugh like that before.” The words drift away with the winter wind before I remember there isn’t anybody standing beside me to hear them. A tiny smile brushes my lips as I stand there for a moment, turning the apple over in my hands while the silence settles around me.
“Excuse me, dear?” I glance up so quickly I almost drop the apple, fumbling to catch it before it slips from my fingers. An elderly woman smiles patiently at me from the other side of the stall, a woven basket hanging from the crook of her arm as snowflakes collect in the silver curls peeking out beneath her knitted hat.
“Oh,” I whisper, smoothing my apron with nervous hands. “H-hello.”
“How much for half a dozen?” I blink, momentarily forgetting how words work.
“You…want to buy them?”
The woman chuckles, the sound warm enough to chase away a little of the cold.
“Well, I certainly wasn’t planning on stealing them.”
I frown, trying to decide whether she’s serious before realizing she’s only talking for the sake of talking.
People do that.
Right.
I carefully choose the nicest apples I had displayed earlier. Dash will be pleased I didn’t come home empty handed. I had been warned that the condition of my release was to earn money. Winter has lingered longer than anyone can remember, burning the fields beneath with too much snow and leaving the cellar emptier than it ought to be. There isn’t enough to sell to their clients, which means there isn’t enough money to bring home. And when there isn’t enough money… The cottage forgets how to be gentle and I like it better when it remembers.
I carefully fold the last sheet of paper over an empty crate before stacking it on top of the others.
“We did it,” I whisper.
Every apple is gone, and I clap my hands together once, the sound swallowed by the bustle of the market, before crouching to gather the loose scraps of paper that had escaped throughout the day. It feels wrong to leave a mess behind. Places like this should be looked after, especially when everyone seems so happy to be here. I dust the snow from the timber counter, smooth my palms over its worn surface, then begin loading the empty crates onto the little wooden cart one at a time, humming beneath my breath as the wheels creak softly beneath the weight. A laugh bubbles quietly from my chest as I put on my cloak, a luxury I had beengranted for being good, because the walk home will be much easier now that I’ve sold the apples. Lugging a full cart across the fields of snow took me forever.
I curl my fingers around the worn timber handle and give it an experimental tug, smiling when the wheels roll forward with surprising ease. All thoughts evaporate when I notice someone is standing on the opposite side of the stall. I hadn’t heard him approach. He leans against the weathered post as though he’d been there all afternoon, one gloved hand tucked into the pocket of a black leather jacket while the other lazily tosses an apple into the air, catching it again with no effort at all. He’s dressed entirely in black, the color swallowing him whole against the white snow, and dark ink disappears beneath the collar of his jacket before winding over the back of his hand, the only one exposed in intricate patterns I’ve never seen before.
My gaze slowly climbs from the apple, to his face. Then, his dark eyes find mine. Warmth blooms beneath my ribs so suddenly it steals the winter from my lungs. I know those eyes. For a long moment, neither of us moves. The market continues around us as though the world hasn’t stopped turning, people weaving between stalls with their bags of produce, laughter drifting lazily through the afternoon air while snow settles softly across his broad shoulders. Beforeme stands my dark angel, as invisible to the world as I am.
“I knew you’d come back,” I whisper, the words escaping my lips though they sound more like a plea and I hadn’t meant them to. His expression doesn’t change, not even a little but I smile anyway. “I wasn’t sure when.” I glance up at the pale winter sky before looking back at him. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“I could say the same about you.”
I frown. I didn’t go anywhere.
