Page 71 of Mistletoe

Hal

He heard every word. While the house’s exterior walls were stone, the interior plaster and lath walls did little to stop sound.

She loved him.

Him.

Scarred. Green. A memory with more holes than a sieve. Him.

Agatha set a pile of clean rags on the table. “I’m sure that grin is not proper.”

“I’ve never been overly bothered with social niceties.”

Her gaze swept over him and her brow furrowed in a familiar way. He could only imagine what a ghastly visage he made, splattered in blood and torn shirt hanging in strips.

“Thank you for protecting my daughter. Now, get that shirt off and wash up at the sink,” she ordered, then tore the rags into strips with alarming aggression.

Hal removed the ruined shirt and scrubbed his hands at the sink. The water was freezing cold, but it helped clear his thoughts. The caustic soap stung the scrapes on his hands. He did not care. He scrubbed with a brush to remove all the blood and debris from under his fingernails. It was only blood. Some his. Most belonged to that animal, the wolver. It could have been Emma’s.

Using a sponge, he tried to wipe away the blood on his arm and chest. It was a big job for one sponge. When Emma arrived, he had only managed a portion.

“For the record,” Agatha said, facing her daughter. “I think it’s deplorable the way you abused your father’s blindness.”

“Ma, I didn’t?—”

“No, you listen to me, Emma De Lacey. You were never going to tell Oscar the truth about Hal’s…” She struggled to find the correct word. “About his person. It’s cowardly, and I expect better.”

Emma nodded. “I know. I’ll apologize when he’s had a chance to cool off. I owe a lot of people apologies.”

Another concerned look with the furrowed brow. “Hmm. Well, I think you two have something to discuss.”

Emma

“You love me,” he said the moment her mother left the kitchen.

They stood in silence, taking the measure of each other. He looked like he’d been in the wars, frankly. Blood smeared across his face, making his visage particularly gruesome. His eyes were narrowed and his lips pressed together, as if he were too stoic to properly express his pain.

He had to be in a tremendous amount of pain. His shoulder was mauled. She could describe it in no other terms. The flesh was torn and ragged. The limb should be hanging uselessly at his side. If he were strictly human, it would be. Wolvers had blunt claws that, rather than leave a clean slice, really dug in and made one regret all their life choices. They were burrowing creatures, so that made a sort of brutal sense.

If he were human, that wolver would have killed him.

Would have killedher.

She should have been aware of her surroundings. The creek was prime wolver hunting grounds. They’d dig little hollows in the ground and lie in wait for prey, spending hours hidden by the grass. Or snowdrifts, in this instance.

“My appearance is distressing,” he said, dipping his head in shame.

That was unacceptable.

“I’m hardly an incomparable beauty,” she said. She still wore her coat, complete with splatter. She could only imagine the disarray of her hair and the likelihood of mud on her cheek. “By the way, it’s rude to eavesdrop. That was a private conversation.”

“A private conversation that involved shouting.”

“We’re very enthusiastic about our privacy in this house.” She struggled to keep her tone light and teasing as she hung her coat. It needed a thorough washing, but that was tomorrow’s problem. “I have to confess that I’m alarmed at your lack of remorse for snooping.”

“You’ll find I’m utterly without remorse,” he said.

She gestured for him to sit before scrubbing her hands at the sink and filling a bowl with water. She inspected his shoulder. “I’ll have you know the only thing distressing about your appearance is your physical pain.”

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