Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Liberty
Five days.
Five days in Ashford Falls, and everything’s fine.
That's what's making me want to tear my own skin off.
The guest house is beautiful.
Hardwood floors that gleam in the morning light.
Granite countertops I'm afraid to scratch.
A bed so soft it swallows me whole every night, and I wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender, gasping from dreams I can't remember but that leave me drenched in sweat and aching in places I refuse to think about.
Gracie stocked the fridge with my favorites—stuff I haven't had in years, stuff I mentioned once in an email from Kuwait and forgot about.
There's a brand of sparkling water I used to drink in high school.
A specific type of cheese I loved.
The exact brand of coffee creamer I used at eighteen, before I learned to drink it black.
Details so small, so personal, that finding them made me stand in front of the open refrigerator for ten minutes, skin prickling, heart pounding, feeling like someone had peeled back my skull and gone rifling through my memories.
She remembered. She always remembers.
But Gracie doesn't drink sparkling water. Gracie hates sharp cheese. Gracie wouldn't know what coffee creamer I used eight years ago.
So, who told her?
I should feel grateful. I should feel safe.
Instead, I lie awake at night and listen to the silence press against me like a living thing, and I feel like I'm being watched through walls I can't see.
I've survived mortar attacks. Ambushes.
An IED that flipped our Humvee and left me buried under two hundred pounds of steel and shattered glass, breathing through a gap no wider than my fist, counting my heartbeats because I was sure each one would be my last.
I've held Martinez's intestines in my hands while he screamed and begged me to tell his mother he loved her.
I've watched the light leave his eyes and then got up the next morning and did my job because that's what soldiers do.
None of that scared me like this.
Because in combat, I could see the enemy. I knew where the fire was coming from. I could fight back.
Here, in this pretty little cottage with its lace curtains and fresh flowers, I can't see anything.
Can't prove anything. Can't point to a single concrete threat and say there, that's what's wrong.
But something is wrong.
I feel it the way I used to feel snipers—that prickle at the back of my neck, that tightening in my gut, that absolute certainty that someone has me in their crosshairs and is waiting for the perfect moment to pull the trigger.
The job interview I had lined up—marketing coordinator at a firm in Charlottesville—went nowhere.
The hiring manager smiled, shook my hand, said they'd be in touch.
Two days later, I got a formal email they'd decided to go with another candidate.
I told myself it happens. The job market is competitive.
I told myself that while my hands shook so hard I had to put down my coffee, while dread pooled in my stomach like something rotting.
The apartment I applied for had a complication with my application.
Missing documentation, the leasing agent said, except I sent everything twice and have the confirmation emails to prove it.
That was four days ago. She hasn't returned my calls since.
The waitressing job at Mae's Diner? Fully staffed.
Even though I watched a ‘Help Wanted’ sign come down from the window two hours after I walked out.
Every door I try to open slams shut in my face.
Coincidence. Bad luck. Transition difficulties. I keep telling myself that.
Keep repeating it like a prayer, like a spell, like if I say it enough times it will become true.
But my instincts are screaming so loud I can barely hear anything else.
I haven't seen Elias since that first night.
Haven't heard his footsteps on the path to the guest house, haven't caught him watching from the windows.
Gracie says he's busy with work. Barely home. Nothing to worry about.
I want to believe her, but I can still feel him.
It's insane. I know it's insane. But he's there, somehow, in the weight of the air, in the pressure against my skin, in the way the shadows seem to thicken whenever I look toward the main house.
I've swept this cottage three times. Checked every outlet, every smoke detector, every vent. Found nothing.
But the feeling doesn't fade.
He's watching me. I know he's watching me.
And I can't prove a goddamn thing.
Today is the town's summer barbecue. Gracie's been talking about it all week.
"You have to come." She sat on my kitchen counter this morning, swinging her legs while I pushed scrambled eggs around my plate and tried not to scream. "Everyone's dying to see you."
I don't want to see everyone.
I want to find a job, find an apartment, and get the hell off Ashford land before whatever is coiling tighter and tighter in my chest finally snaps.
But Gracie looked at me with those hopeful eyes—her brother's eyes, pale blue and impossible to refuse—and I heard myself say yes.
I always say yes to Gracie.
That's how I ended up here in the first place.
The town square is packed by the time we arrive.
Picnic tables loaded with food. Kids shrieking as they chase each other through the grass. A bluegrass band playing under the gazebo.
I scan the crowd automatically. Exits first, then faces. My fingers itch for a weapon I'm not carrying.
Everyone seems happy to see me. Everyone seems glad I'm home.
So why does it feel like I'm walking into a kill zone?
Gracie drags me from table to table, reintroducing me to people I half-remember. I shake hands. Smile when I'm supposed to.
Yes, it's good to be home. No, I'm not sure what's next. Still figuring things out.
The lies taste like ash on my tongue.
I'm standing at the lemonade table, calculating how soon I can leave without hurting Gracie's feelings, when the crowd shifts.
And there he is.
My whole body locks up.
Elias Ashford walks through the gathering like he owns every soul in it.
He's wearing a pale blue button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he looks like something out of a magazine—the kind of man mothers dream about for their daughters.
Yet, this man makes my blood run cold and hot at the same time.
People gravitate toward him. Shaking his hand. Touching his arm. A woman I don't know laughs at something he says, leaning in too close, and I watch his face as he smiles back.
Warm. Charming. Magnetic.
And underneath it all, absolutely empty.
I see it. I've always seen it.
The mask he wears for everyone else, the one that makes them love him.
The thing beneath the mask that makes me want to run.
The fire chief corners him near the dessert table. The mayor joins them. More handshakes, more smiles, more proof that Elias is the best thing that ever happened to this town.
I watch him work the crowd, and ice spreads through my veins.
Then his eyes find mine.
Everything else disappears.
The noise, the music, the smell of barbecue and summer grass—all of it fades until there's nothing but him, thirty feet away, looking at me like I'm the only thing in this world worth seeing.
He smiles.
And my heart slams against my ribs so hard I feel it in my throat.
No.
I hate this.
Hate the way my body responds to him before my brain can catch up.
The way my pulse spikes.
The way heat floods my skin like fever.
How something low in my belly clenches with a wanting so sharp it feels like being stabbed.
I hate him for making me feel it and myself more for not being able to stop.
He excuses himself from the mayor and starts walking toward me.
The crowd parts around him like he's royalty, and I want to run—every instinct I have is screaming at me to run—but my feet won't move.
My feet never move when he's looking at me.
He stops in front of me. Close. Too close.
Close enough that I can smell him—woodsy cologne and something underneath, something warm and male that makes my mouth water even as my skin crawls.
"Liberty."
He says my name like he's tasting it. Like it's something sweet he's been craving.
My throat goes dry. I take a sip of lemonade to buy time, but it turns to acid on my tongue.
"Elias." I keep my voice flat. My face blank. Give him nothing.
His smile widens, and I see it—the flicker of satisfaction in those pale eyes.
The knowledge that I'm affected. That I've always been affected.
He reaches out. Slow. Deliberate. And takes my free hand in his.
The contact burns through me like wildfire.
His skin is warm against mine, his fingers strong as they curl around my palm, and every nerve in my body lights up at once.
I should pull away. I need to pull away.
I don't.
I can't.
His thumb brushes across my pulse point, and I know he feels it—my heart is racing, my blood is pounding, my body is betraying everything I believe about myself.
His eyes darken. Something hungry moves behind them.
"Welcome home." His voice drops low, a murmur meant only for me. "I've been looking forward to this."
I'll bet you have.
"Have you." I force the words out through numb lips.
"Very much." He doesn't let go. His thumb keeps moving, slow circles against the inside of my wrist, and each pass sends heat spiraling through me, pooling low in my belly, making my thighs clench.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
I want him so badly I can barely breathe.
"Gracie tells me you're settling in well." His voice is pleasant, conversational. His eyes are anything but. "I hope the guest house is comfortable?"
"It's fine." It's a cage. A beautiful cage you built for me.
"Fine." He repeats the word like it amuses him. "You always were a minimalist with your praise."
And you always watched me like you were memorizing me for later.
I should say something sharp. Something cutting. Something that will make him let go of my hand and walk away.
Instead I stand there, pulse racing, skin burning, hating myself for every second I don't pull away.
"I should find Gracie." My voice comes out breathless. Weak. I hate the sound of it.
"She's by the bandstand." He nods toward the gazebo but doesn't release me. "Before you go—I wanted to offer my help."
"Your help."