Page 31 of Deacon

She shakes her head hard. “No, Aiden would lose it if he knew I was with…a man.”

She has a reaction to speaking his name. It’s so subtle, I almost miss it. But I lived with Phil and Amie, so I learned to tune in to the little details. I hear the caginess in her tone. The tiny contracting of her pupils. The slight increase in her breathing.

She’s scared, deep down. Anger floods my veins.

“Is Aiden a problem that needs handling?” I blurt out.

She sets the phone down. “Why?”

I shrug. “If Aiden’s a problem for you, I can handle that problem.”

Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. If I weren’t fired up about Aiden being a potential abuser, I’d have a reaction to that. But inside, I’m angry the way I was when I saw what Amie went through. There’s something about injustice against people who can’t fight that flips my switch, makes me do insane things.

“What are you saying?” she whispers.

I set the mugs in the sink and turn, wiping my hands dry on the towel.

“I mean, if he’s putting his hands on you, I don’t mind putting a fence stake in his head.”

That came out a lot stronger than intended. Her jaw drops.

“What?” she whispers.

I smile. “I’m just joking, sweetheart. But if you got somebody putting their hands on you, I’m happy to do the neighborly thing and have a word with him.”

I half expected her to go pale. Instead, the prettiest blush creeps over her face and slips down to the swell of her cleavage. I’ll bet she blushes like that when she comes, all laid out on her back with her hand between her legs.

I’ve thought about that a lot too—what Freya looks like when she touches herself. It’s a bit of an obsession at this point.

She tucks a curl behind her ear. “I’m kind of tired. Could I go to bed now?”

“Of course,” I say. “You want anything else? Shot of whiskey?”

She hesitates by the door. “Sure. I’m still a little cold”

I take out a bottle of honey whiskey and pour two shot glasses. She picks it up in her delicate fingers and shoots it, like she does it a lot. She shivers. The glass clinks on the counter.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” she says.

“The storm should be calmed by the end of the day tomorrow,” I say. “I can’t promise it’ll be done by the morning.”

She nods.

“Alright, let’s get you to the guestroom.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

FREYA

He shows me to a room at the start of the hall, by the stairs. There’s an attic door, but it’s locked. He stands by it while I say goodnight, says if I need anything, I should call for him.

I shut my door, lock it, and stand in the middle of the room.

It’s beautiful, like the rest of the house. The walls are the same dark wood. The furnishings are blue. The fireplace is pale stone, and it flickers a soothing orange. Between the two windows is a preserved coyote. I don’t like the thought that he killed it. I know they’re a nuisance, but it’s so pretty.

Maybe he didn’t. Even with his scars and blurry tattoos, he’s surprisingly gentle.

My skin prickles as I cross the room. I pull back the covers and climb in. The bed is so soft, I sink down. My body is tired, strung out from being so afraid. The shot of whiskey helps unwind my nerves.

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