Page 18 of Beyond the Cottage

A charge went off in Ansel. He hurtled forward, knocking the chair aside. She flinched, but didn’t retreat. They breathed heavily without saying anything, and he fought the senseless urge to yank her against his chest. Stumbling away from her, he wiped spit off his cheek and tossed the cuffs on the desk.

What the fuck was happening? This was supposed to be a calm, rational business transaction, yet he’d somehow managed to make everything worse.

What was he supposed todowith her?

She landed on his back before he saw her leap. One of her arms clamped around his neck while her fist pummeled his kidney. More startled than injured, he tried to shrug her off, and she clung tighter, cutting off his airway.

“Enough!” he choked. She sank her teeth into his neck and bit—hard. “Goddammit, pixie!”

He twisted, getting enough of a grip on her to haul her in front of him. He held her back to his chest in a bear hug, dodging the heels pounding his shins. “Enough!”

She continued thrashing. At a loss, he slung her over his shoulder and hauled her out the door. Her screams echoed through the hall, and two pixies poked their heads out of their rooms.

“Help me!” Miss Hacker cried.

The pair whispered to each other, giving Ansel puzzled looks.

When he reached the southern block, her screams became a moan. “Don’t! I didn’t mean it, you’re not swamp trash!Please,Lab Coat, you shit-eating goddamn fuckingsackofshit!”

Ansel dumped her in the cell and slammed the door. He stood at the bars, panting, as she kept hurling curses. Barely aware of where his legs took him, he wandered the corridors until he reached his private quarters and drifted to the bathroom.

Hand pressed to the bite, he faced the mirror above the sink. A crack in the glass distorted his features, bisecting them. He gripped the sink to keep from slamming a fist through his reflection.

How had he so thoroughly lost control? And why the fuck did he care if she called him swamp trash? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t heard it before.

He stared at his wretched face, wishing he could peel his skin off. Dark shadows rolled through his mind like a storm front, thickening on the way to his lungs until he couldn’t catch a breath.

He sat on the edge of the tub and put his head between his knees, counting backward from fifty, focusing on bright, cleansing light. It was an old trick but an effective one. When his mind cleared, he slumped to the floor.

What the fuck was he going to do about the pixie? Clearly, he’d been mistaken to assume he could sway her.

Heshouldlet her go—he may be a bastard, but he wasn’t so far gone he didn’t see that. But what then?

The dust farm was finished, that much was clear. And good riddance. It had only ever been a burden, a means to an end. But if he released her and she went to the police, his real work and his years of researching magic craft would have been for nothing.

Not an option. Which meant three choices remained.

He could release her immediately and run. But some of the pixies couldn’t presently fly, and like an idiot, he’d never secured reliable transportation for a group.

He could let her go and stay, hoping the police wouldn’t believe her. A distinct possibility, but hardly an assured one.

Or…

He could keep her with him until he sold her dust and prepared a proper exodus. It shouldn’t take long, a week on the outside. After, he and Miss Hacker would part ways, and she could burn the farm to the ground for all he cared. He’d thought about doing it himself many times.

This plan would infuriate Miss Hacker, of course, but once the week was up, she’d go back to her life and do whatever she pleased with her financial windfall. In time, she might even end up glad for how things turned out.

Logic always trumped emotion, eventually.

Ansel massaged his aching kidney, already dreading his next conversation with her. He’d also need to let the others in on his plan.

Rationality back in place, Ansel left his quarters to search for Seven and Jonas.

Chapter 7

The following afternoon, Ansel returned to Miss Hacker’s cell. He’d spent another night without much sleep, so fatigue and tension strained his steps. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and stopped at her cell.

She sat cross-legged on the pallet, toying with her ponytail and reading the book he’d put in the sack. Her hair looked freshly washed. A bucket of soapy water stood inside the bars, as well as an empty food tray. He disregarded a twinge of relief that she’d been eating. Also, a stab of guilt.

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