Page 73 of Honey Bee Hearts

He holds up his hands in surrender as Colt appears and comes up to him. I ignore both of them. Instead, I go looking for the one person who speaks in truth and truth alone.

I find Trent bent over his anvil, hammering away at a piece of metal. Sly sits on the chair, curled up asleep, and he doesn’t move when I come storming in. Trent, however, looks up with raised brows and takes in my appearance.

“You good?” he asks, his shoulders tensing. “Someone hurt you?”

“No,” I spit. “No, no one hurt me. They’re just lying to me and keeping secrets.”

His expression shuts down. “Ah, you mean Gunnar.”

“I mean all of you,” I snarl, and my chest gets so tight, I start breathing way too fast. With the heat in here, it doesn’t help, but I don’t care. “What the fuck is going on here?”

He sets down his hammer and pulls off his gloves. “I can’t tell you that.”

“So you’re keeping secrets, too, then?” I fire back, hurt. It shouldn’t matter. I’m leaving. I won’t ever have to see this place again.

But I want to.

God, do I want to. I want to come back and visit these guys and spend time out here. But I can’t if they’re keeping secrets from me, secrets that force them to cart me off, so I don’t see whatever it is that they’re up to. It would be stupid of me to do that, so I can ask, I can demand, but if they don’t tell me, I won’t be back.

My hyperventilating gets worse, and I sway, my vision going black for a second before Trent is there, his expression concerned.

“Hey, you need to calm down, Fable,” he orders. “You’re about to pass out.”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I gasp, pressing my hand against my chest. Oh god, I can’t breathe.

“Fuck,” Trent growls, dragging me over to the anvil. He shoves the hammer in my hand. “Hit it.”

I stare at the hammer, confused, so he wraps his hand around mine and has me swing the hammer toward the piece of metal on the anvil. It hits with a clang. He does it again, and again, until I can take over and I start swinging it myself. I shoutwith every hit, angry, letting out my anger and frustration, until the piece of metal is flat and bumpy, the opposite of the pretty things Trent makes. I stare at it in dismay.

“I ruined your work,” I say, my throat bobbing.

“Nah. It’s just a piece of expressionistic art,” he replies. A surprised laugh bursts from me, and I look at him over my shoulder. “Feel better?”

I set the hammer down. “I still wanna know what’s going on.”

“But you’re not so full of anger now, right?” he clarifies.

I sigh and nod, looking down at the ugly piece of metal. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t want to,” Trent answers. “We keep secrets to protect you, to protect ourselves. It can’t be helped, but you can enjoy the last week of your time here without fear, Fable.”

Glancing up at him, I take in his face. He has a bit of coal smeared across his cheek, and I reach up to wipe it away. He stills when I touch him, frozen, until I clean it and study him closer.

“Am I insane?” I whisper, looking into his ochre eyes. “Is this a game?”

He stares at me, not offering any words, so I explain, in case he doesn’t understand what I mean.

“Rhett sleeps with me. No commitments. I think Gunnar will be mad but he’s not. He doesn’t mind. Colt wants me to sleep with everyone and tell him about it. He’s been clear about that since the beginning.” I want to reach for him, to take his hand, but I don’t. “And then there’s you.”

“What about me?” he asks carefully, his eyes steadfast on mine.

“Am I imagining our connection?” I ask. I partly think I’m imagining it, that I’ve convinced myself with my ego that Trent likes me, but he’s never actually made a move, not like the others. He keeps to himself. He stays out here in this garage. Heentertains me every so often and lets me hang out. But. . . maybe I’ve imagined the connection. Maybe I’m wrong.

He hesitates for a moment, before he reaches up a large hand and carefully, barely, caresses my cheek. “No,” he murmurs. “You’re not imagining it.”

“Then why?—”

“I’m not a good option. I’m not in this race,” he says, his hand dropping.

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