Page 10 of A Killing Cold

Clear your plate, Dora.

I threw it against the wall. I was always an ungrateful child.

Irina returns with a solemn black-haired young woman I assume by their near-identical features is her daughter. They clear the plates, mine with hardly a bite taken, and replace them with the main course—venison in blackberry wine sauce, roasted vegetables on the side.

“Have you ever had venison before?” Alexis asks as I look down at my plate. The smell is mouthwatering, but I think of the creature on the road, the resignation and the fear in its eyes.

“Yes,” I say. “Did it come from the property?”

“Shot it myself,” Mr. Dalton says. He slices into the steak. The meat is rare, the interior a deep red. The juices pool. “You’re not squeamish about that sort of thing, are you?”

I cut into my own meat, compress my lips into a smile. “Not at all. I’ve done a bit of hunting myself.”

The old man looks surprised. “Really. I thought you were one of Connor’s poetry types. Eating granola and quoting Joyce.” There’s a spark of humor in his eye.

“I do that, too,” I reply, and he laughs before taking a bite.

“Not much deer hunting in Los Angeles, is there?” Nick asks.

I lift my fork to my mouth to buy myself time. Something about Nick’s gaze unsettles me. His eyes are the same shade of blue as Connor’s, but cold.

Connor knows a few broad details of my life. I have not lied to him—much. He’s smart enough to guess there is a reason I don’t talk about my family, and kind enough not to tug at the stitches holding those wounds shut. “I grew up in Washington,” I say, as I did before. Most people will hear that and think of orcas and the Space Needle, not a stretch of sagebrush scrub and scablands spitting distance from the Idaho border.

“Is that where you’re from originally?” Nick presses.

“Until I left for college.”

“I was just in Seattle for a conference last month,” Alexis says. “Lovely city.”

“It is,” I say. I’ve been there only once. Connor is perfectly aware which side of the mountains I grew up on, but he sips his wine and says nothing.

“You won’t be staying in LA, will you?” Alexis asks. “You’re moving back to New York, right?”

“We haven’t talked about it yet.” Connor sounds uncomfortable.

“I imagine there are a lot of things you haven’t gotten around to talking about,” Alexis says, and then looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you did,” Mrs. Dalton says. “They’re rushing into things. The girl is drinking, so I assumethat’snot the reason why.”

It takes me a couple of seconds to understand what she’s saying, and I just about choke on a blackberry. “No,” I say quickly. “I’m not—we’re not—”

Connor covers my hand with his on the tabletop. “We just don’t see the point in wasting time when we both know what it is we want.”

“I think we all know what she wants,” Trevor mutters—under his breath but loud enough for everyone to hear it, the implication clear. A rich man rushing into love is a fool. The woman on the other side of the equation is something else entirely. Paloma adjusts the napkin tucked into Sebastian’s shirt while Alexis becomes absorbed in the task of refilling her wine.

Nick Dalton stares straight at me.

“I proposed to your grandmother after two weeks,” Magnus Dalton declares. “Married four months later. I agree. No sense waiting around if you’re sure. Of course, that was because she wouldn’t let me sleep with her before she had a ring on her finger. I doubt you have that problem.”

“Magnus,” Mrs. Dalton says in a voice that could freeze the ocean, but he just laughs, dragging a chunk of venison through the juices on his plate.

“No, that’s definitely not a factor,” I say cheerfully. Alexis coughs. Trevor guffaws.

Magnus jabs his steak knife toward the blushing Connor. “I like a girl who can stick up for herself. But you be careful. They run your life.” At his wife’s warning look, he adds, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

After that, the subject drifts blessedly away from me as Alexis starts talking about her business trip, which leads to talking about the family business—something about tariffs and a big deal they’re trying to land. I catch the phraseEastern marketsand little else I can decipher.

There’s a lump in my throat. I down a too-large swallow of wine to dislodge it. As I set the glass down, Connor’s pinkie nudges my arm.He catches my eye and tilts his head.Hanging in there?the look says. I take another sip, locking eyes with him, to answer. He stifles a chuckle. Alexis’s voice brings my attention back to the conversation. “We’re going to have to build another cabin now, you know,” she’s saying. “I mean, I assume Trevor doesn’t want to bunk with Mom forever.”

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