Page 19 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

I belong to him now. And heaven help the Crimson Hollow Syndicate when they realize what he’s willing to do to protect his hive.

6

Alas

The smell of raw clover honey and pine smoke coats my skin. It mixes with the dark scent of my own sweat and the slick heat we just made.

The single swinging bulb above us casts harsh shadows against the wooden walls of the honey shed. The cast-iron uncapping tank sits cold and silent. The mountain wind rattles the single windowpane.

I pull back.

The air in the room shifts. Susan sags against the bench. Her breathing comes in ragged, uneven pulls. Her bare skin flushes pale pink in the dim light. I step into her space again, refusing to let the cold mountain air touch her.

My hands are massive. Scarred knuckles. Calloused palms. Hands built for breaking jaws and snapping bone. They’ve never been gentle a single day of my life. But right now, they move with mechanical precision. Her gray tank top is lost somewhere in the shadows. I don't go looking for it. She’ll wear nothing under the canvas but my marks. I reach down and gather her bee suit. I pull it up her legs. Over her hips.

She tries to help. Her fingers tremble.

I swat her hands away. A low grunt leaves me. She drops her hands. She lets me do it.

I drag the zipper up the front of her chest. I smooth the collar against the soft skin of her throat. The same skin I just bit hard enough to leave a mark. The dark purple bruise is already forming right over her throat. It looks like a brand. It is a brand.

Mine.

The rage inside me—the volatile static that has burned in my skull since I was a kid—is silent. For the first time in my life, the dog is off the chain, but it doesn't want to bite. It just wants to lay at her feet and guard the door.

"Alas." Her voice is scraped thin.

I don't answer with words. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck. My thumb strokes the edge of her jaw. I guide her toward the wooden door of the shed. I push it open.

The high-altitude wind hits us instantly. It carries the scent of wild clover, damp earth, and impending frost. The morning sun cuts across the twelve acres of her farm, illuminating the long rows of white wooden hive boxes.

She steps out into the grass. I follow, keeping my hand planted firmly on her spine.

We walk up the incline. The dirt paths are rutted from her boots. Two years she has walked these paths alone. Two years carrying two hundred hives and a war she didn't ask for. Two years shouldering the weight of the mountain.

Not anymore.

We reach the hive line. The wooden windbreak I built overnight stands solid against the northern downdraft. The planks of rough-cut pine block the bitter wind, creating a warm, stagnant pocket of air right over the colonies.

Susan stops. She looks at the wall. Then she looks at me.

"You're not wearing a veil," she points out.

"No."

"They're active today."

"Let them be."

She shakes her head, muttering under her breath about stubborn mountain men, but she doesn't fight me. She walks over to the metal smoker resting on the lid of a nearby box. She strikes a match. Drops it inside. A sweet-smelling cloud of pine smoke billows out of the spout.

I stand beside her. I plant my boots in the dirt. I fold my arms.

The bees rise in a cloud. A low, vibrating hum fills the air. Sixty thousand tiny wings beating at once. They swarm around her veiled head. They bounce off her canvas suit. Then they drift toward me.

A dozen land on my bare forearms. Three settle on my knuckles. One crawls across the collar of my black t-shirt.

I don't flinch. I don't move a single muscle. I breathe slow, even, shallow. I’m a tree. I’m a stone. I’m part of the farm. They recognize the lack of threat. They taste the sweat on my skin, they feel the steady rhythm of my blood, and they accept me.