Page 33 of Beyond the Cottage

They spent eleven months together before they escaped, and when they found a farmhouse outside the woods, they were taken to a constable who notified their parents. Ansel and Gretta clung to each other, refusing to be separated while they waited. Then her parents came, and he just…never saw her again. And she didn’t say goodbye.

What if shehadmeant what she said? What if the trauma of the cottage had made him so desperate for connection, he misconstrued her survival instincts for affection?

He couldn’t be that delusional, though, could he? Surely he’d meantsomethingto her?

When he lost her, he’d been… Devastated wasn’t a strong enough word. There wasn’t one. During the six weeks he spent in a crowded orphanage, waiting for his father to show up, he mourned Gretta’s loss like a sickness. He became frailer and rarely slept. It took years to fashion himself into something resembling a functional adult. Once he’d given up on finding her, the only thing that had kept him going was his research.

And she’d just moved on?

Ansel’s nails dug into his palms. Of course she’d moved on. She’d always been stronger than him. And he was glad of it. Better she got over the past quickly, rather than languish in grief and futility like Ansel. She’d clearly gone on to better things, a better life.

Until he came back into it.

Ansel reached the kitchen, unsure how he got there. He found Seven sitting on a counter with a damp cloth pressed to her cheek, while Jonas tied off catgut sutures on his arm.

“Are you seeing this?” Jonas asked, brandishing medical shears. “I needed goddamn stitches.”

“I see it.” Ansel mechanically retrieved buckets from the corner and pumped water. He peeled off his shirt and rinsed away the worst of the mud before filling another bucket.

“His nose needs resetting,” Seven said. “He won’t let me near it.”

“Fucking yeah it does,” Jonas said. “You didn’t need to clock me, dick, she asked for what she got.”

Ansel stopped pumping. He set the full bucket on the burning stove and approached Jonas until their chests nearly touched. “I suggest you reevaluate that sentiment.” He snapped the broken nose in place with two thumbs.

“Ow, fuck!” Blood dripped onto Jonas’s already gruesome shirt. “You could have warned me, asshole! And you know what, I bet you didn’t handleshitwith the pixie. Tell that little cunt to keep her distance, or I’ll take care of her myself.”

Ansel didn’t blink. His hand slowly, almost tenderly, closed around Jonas’s throat, tightening until his cousin’s reddened cheeks swelled and his fingers clawed at Ansel’s wrist. Seven watched dispassionately.

“Call her a cunt again.”

Jonas choked, grappling with Ansel’s arm. His eyes watered, and his foot shuffled in something approximating a kick.

Jonas was big, but he’d never been much of a fighter.

“Let…g—uh—me.”

Ansel eased up just enough. “I said call her a cunt again. I want you to, so you’ll see what happens. It’s a pale shadow of what I’ll do to you if you ever touch her again.”

“Algh—alright! She’s not a cunt!” When Ansel let go, Jonas slumped against the counter, violently rubbing his neck. “What in the ever loving fuck is wrong with you?”

Ansel collected another bucket.

“I mean it, what’s going on? You’ve been a complete lunatic ever since you tapped her.”

Ansel placed the filled bucket on the stove. He gripped the counter, bracing himself on straightened arms. “The pixie,” hesaid, lifting his head. “She’s Gretta. I didn’t realize it until this morning.”

Jonas and Seven gave him blank stares. After a pause, Jonas’s eyes narrowed. “Wait.GrettaGretta?”

“Yes.”

Another pause, then Jonas smiled and burst out laughing. Ansel stared at a cabinet handle.

“Who’s Gretta?” Seven asked.

“She was…”What?His missing half? His fucking soul? The only person he’d ever loved in his miserable goddamn life? “My friend. From childhood.”

“Friend, right,” Jonas sniggered. “Ansel was obsessed with her. Some old lady forced them to do her chores for a while, and he wasted years hunting the girl down after she ran away.”

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