Page 26 of The Hermit

“Maybe you should go stay with your aunt and uncle,” Ian suggests.

“There’s no way on God’s green earth I’m leaving Ciara alone,” she snaps. “It’s clear Dominik has you under his thumb. It doesn’t matter what you have to sacrifice as long as you keep him happy, right?” I hear movement then she continues, “Just because you’re too weak to fight him doesn’t mean I’ll back down.” Her tone drops to an aggressive hiss. “It will only make me fight harder.”

“And you’ll end up dead! Is that what you want, Grace?” Ian shouts.

Her tone is ice cold as she replies, “I don’t care about what happens to me. Only Ciara matters.”

My eyes narrow, and I turn my head slightly.

I don’t like the idea of Grace dying for Ciara one bit. The world needs more people like her.

Having heard enough, I start walking again and head straight to the cottage so I can get to work on finding a place for me to meet with the others.

GRACE

Not getting much sleep the past two days has me feeling like a zombie while I whisk pancake batter.

My eyes feel so scratchy I keep blinking until I give up and set the bowl and whisk down on the counter. Walkingto the cupboard where we keep our first aid kit, supplements, and over-the-counter medicine for colds, I search through everything until I find eye drops.

I wish Dominik would leave. Having him around the house is too unnerving. Ciara is a nervous wreck, and it feels as if I’m a split second away from being killed.

Taking the cap off, I tilt my head back, but when I try to get a drop into my eye, I keep missing, and it rolls down my temple or cheek.

Suddenly, the small bottle is taken from me, and Dominik says, “Keep your head tilted back.”

Not listening, a glare quickly forms on my face, and I mutter, “I can do it myself. I don’t need your help.”

His blue eyes meet mine, and he gives me a don’t-fuck-with-me look. “Tilt your head back, Grace!”

I’ve never heard that tone before, but it makes intense fear shudder through me, and I feel like a lamb that’s about to be slaughtered.

When I don’t do as I’m told, he steps right up to me, grips a fistful of my hair, and lightly tugs at the strands, silently telling me to tilt my head back or he’ll force me.

I feel vulnerable as I reluctantly carry out his order, and even though I blink like crazy, he manages to get a few drops into each of my eyes. The liquid is soothing, and I can’t keep myself from closing my eyes while the burn and scratchy sensation eases.

“Dobré dievca,” he murmurs, his deep voice sounding so intimate my eyes pop open, and I quickly pull away from him.

I use my hand to wipe the stray drops from my face and rush to the counter where I left the pancake mixture.

As I pick up the bowl and whisk and begin to beat the crap out of the batter, I ask, “What do the words mean?”

I hear him move closer, and only when he leans his hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest does he answer, “Good girl.”

Unlike yesterday, Dominik isn’t wearing a suit jacket today, and the sleeves of his black dress shirt are rolled up to beneath his elbows. A gun is strapped to his chest, and most of his skin on his forearms are covered with tattoos. It looks like a skeleton has been inked all over his skin, with flowers and guns worked into the design.

It's both beautiful and menacing.

My eyes lift to his neck, and with the top three buttons of his shirt undone, I can see an angel with spread wings tattooed across the crook of his neck.

When my gaze lifts higher, our eyes connect and heat flushes my cheeks. I quickly look at the bowl.

A moment of silence passes, filled only by the sound of the whisk hitting the bowl, then he asks, “Do you like cooking and baking?”

“None of your business,” I mutter.

“Fine,” he chuckles. “Can Ciara cook?”

My eyes flick to his face, and I glare at him. Not willing to tell him anything about Ciara, I reply, “Ilike it.”

---