Page 34 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“I’m okay, thank you. Just tired.”

Lola pulls me into another hug before I can protest. She holds me for several loaded seconds before releasing me and standing up, taking a moment to swipe a finger underneath her reddened eyes.

“Get some rest. We can talk more when you’re feeling better. I’ll find you some pain relievers too. Doc should have some stashed away.”

“Thank you, Lola.”

Dragging down the bedsheets to unveil the marshmallow softness of the mattress, I feel the adrenaline drain out of my body in an instant. I’ve only been awake for an hour or so, but I feel completely depleted already.

“Can you send Arianna up?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her.” Lola winks at me. “I need a hand in the greenhouse this afternoon.”

“Oh, I guess that’ll be okay.”

Blowing me a kiss, she halts in the doorway. “I’m so happy that you’re here, Willow. I never thought I’d have a chance to be your grandmother. I won’t waste it.”

Closing the door before I can answer her, I’m left alone in the room, wrapped in silence. Despite knowing that we made it here alive, terror still slinks down my spine.

At any moment, I expect the door to smash open and for Mr Sanchez to stride in with his favourite whip in hand to punish me for daring to leave him. I can’t begin to imagine how angry he must be right now.

I’ll never be safe, not even here.

Maybe coming to Briar Valley was a mistake.

CHAPTER 8

KILLIAN

TO LOVE SOMEBODY - THE HOWL & THE HUM

Glaring at the lumpy pancake batter in the mixing bowl, I continue to take out my aggression on it. Once all the specks of flour have disintegrated, I use the ladle to pour four decent-sized puddles into the pan.

I’ve been in a foul mood since the coal-haired beauty flinched away from me a few days ago, believing that my hand was raised to strike her. That fucking hurt. Even though she’s a total stranger and I shouldn’t give a shit.

“Jesus Christ.” Zach appears in the kitchen, pulling a paint-flecked blue t-shirt over his bare chest. “This is domesticated as hell.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Where’s your flowery apron, champ?”

“Don’t test me, kid,” I warn him. “I’ll withhold breakfast rights.”

“You wouldn’t,” he challenges.

Grabbing a wooden spoon from the utensil spot, I whip it across the kitchen with perfect aim. It hits him in the back of the head as he fills his coffee cup from the French press I just brewed. Zach yelps, almost dropping his morning brew.

“Ow! That fucking hurt!”

“No bacon for you,” I chastise. “I told you not to test me.”

Zach mutters a curse and takes a seat at the breakfast bar connected to our messy, disorganised kitchen. He dumps far too much sugar in his coffee cup, wincing before he takes a sip and adds another huge spoonful.

“Real coffee doesn’t need sweetening.”

He facepalms. “Don’t start this shit again, Kill.”

“You eat like an eight-year-old with a sugar addiction.”

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