Page 69 of Debt of My Soul

“I married her.” It’s entirely vague and not enough information, but those three words worm their way into my darkened heart and my chest swells, regardless of the coercion.

Grandfather clears his throat, propping a lanky arm on his waist while the other comes up to rub his forehead. “Is this one of those—those—” He flutters his hand as if willing the word to come to him. I answer for him.

“Claimings. And yes. Adam dug himself into a hole again. Darrin thought taking Fleur would make him pay up. It didn’t. Then Blitz got ahold of her … It was … not a positive outcome. I stepped in.”

“As you always do. Does she know?” My grandfather’s words are stern.

“No.”

I kick a box off to my right and dive after it when it slides farther than I anticipate.

“Do you plan to?” My grandfather is my confidant and I look up to him in more ways than one. He’s more than family. The slinking urge to lie to him is on the tip of my tongue, but I go with the truth.

“Right now, it does no good.” My eyes rise up from the third box of gnomes I’ve come across and land on my grandfather. His wrinkled mouth frowns at me, the deep lines curling down and to the side as he contemplates.

“And what about Adam?”

“What about him?” I bristle at the mention of my brother’s name.

“Aren’t they an item?” he asks.

The fact is, I don’t know. I have a feeling someone wounded Fleur, and I doubt Adam has had enough time to accomplish the decimation of her heart. No. She ran here for a reason. Regardless, she ismywife now. That was the whole point.

“Darrin deems it a significant insult to Adam—me marrying her. I pitched the idea as that, but it was to save her life.”

He nods as if this makes sense to him, and I wonder if he’s truly understanding or if he has no words.

“And your mother? Your father?” Worry etches itself in the grooves around my grandfather’s eyes. For the same reason we avoided telling my mother about Adam, I’m assuming he would want me to avoid telling her this.

The thing is, we can’t avoid it. It’s supposed to get out. It’s supposed to weave around the small town, gossiped out of the mouths of the locals, quick and hurried. Surely the news will find my mother.

“I’m sure I’ll hear from them soon.”

We continue to work, my grandfather grilling me about my plans with Fleur, and I sense he’s hunting for any further motivations besides what I’ve told him. I can’t stomach the distraction each time her name is murmured. And the loominganxiety about tonight presses deep into my temples. I knead them.

“Aha! Found it.”

My grandfather shoves two boxes to the side, and I glance over his shoulder to find a half-decayed possum carcass. Poor guy. Must’ve run in while the garage was open and gotten stuck trying to get out. Instead of waiting by the door, though, he buried himself deeper, further blocking his path.

I make a note. Not to bury myself any deeper.

When we’re finished in the garage, we move back into the bed-and-breakfast. My grandfather makes straight for the kitchen, no doubt hankering for one of the scones. The half bathroom is off the entryway, and since there aren’t guests this weekend, I don’t bother knocking.

When I yank open the door, a high-pitched squeak escapes from someone.

Fleur leans over the bathroom sink, dabbing her puffy eyes. While they widen, mine narrow straight on the splotchy pink grazing her cheeks and her red-tipped nose half buried in tissue.

Hell.

“Why are you crying?” I ask. It comes out loud and in a growling tone I try to temper, but it’s no use.

Fleur rolls her eyes. Her hand holding the white tissue drops to smack her thigh with a dull slap. My sweatpants are rolled over her hips, the large T-shirt tucked into the side. A small patch of creamy pale skin, unmarred by the Southern sun, peeks through and I curl my hands into fists to keep from stroking a finger there.

She sniffs, and the noise beckons my attention back to hers.

“Who made you cry?” I ask again.

She raises her eyebrows, and those steely eyes pin mine with a deadpan stare. As if to say:who else?

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