2. Sutton
TWO
Sutton
“ S utton!” I held my breath as my Aunt Poppy wound her reedy arms around me, jerking me into a fierce hug that surprised me and knocked my hat—my proverbial security blanket—from my head with a thump I swore vibrated through the old floorboards.
It was two days. I could handle this. I’d endured worse.
“Oh, my darling girl,” she cooed, the tears constricting her voice, fingers stroking the frizzing ends of my hair the rain had its way with. “I have missed you something fierce.” Aunt Poppy framed my face, and I trapped the wince when I caught the slight twitch in her mouth as my scar registered under her warm palm. “You are a spitting image of Hannah.”
Was I?
I couldn’t remember my mom or my dad, my Aunt Poppy’s brother-in-law. Aunt Poppy took me in after my parents had died in a car accident when I was six. She’d already been a widow for two years at that point.
But I hadn’t seen a photo of my parents since I’d left, and I took nothing with me. Some part of me hadn’t wanted reminders of my old life.
Of him.
Leaving with the clothes on my back had been the only option, even though I’d been presented with two—I could stay in Rockchapel, or I could leave. Start over.
Take the money they’d refused to call a settlement and go.
It wasn’t really a choice when the undercurrents of the threat were clear, and the money was contingent on you leaving, was it?
They didn’t want to see the indelible reminder of their son’s actions.
Aunt Poppy needed a break. Leaving was the best way to give her that.
Pulling in a stiff breath, I met her kind grey eyes, counting each extra heartbeat. “Thanks,” I managed, flicking my eyes behind her, catching a familiar face lingering in the threshold of the kitchen entrance, unsure what to do with himself.
He held up a hand in an awkward wave. “You look well, Sutton.”
Was that lie as painful to get out as it sounded, Grant?
Grant Eckhart was my— my Aunt Poppy’s next-door neighbor—and, while she’d never admitted it to me, her fuck buddy. Given she was staying here while her house was undergoing renovations, it was safe to assume things had gotten serious between them.
“Did you change your hair?” he asked, edging closer, his blacksmith hands buried in the pockets of his best khakis. Silver had overtaken the inky black in the last seven years, a fan of deep lines framing his eyes and forehead.
I couldn’t help but feel he was forcing himself to look at me, to maintain eye contact.
Most people did.
“No.” Same shade of ash-brown, shapeless, and well overdue for a cut.
Stepping out of Aunt Poppy’s embrace, I ignored the flash of rejection in her gaze.
“How was the drive?” Had Grant always been this terrible at small talk?
“Fine.” Long. Boring. They’d offered to come pick me up personally, anything to ensure I came, but I’d spared us all from what would have been ten uncomfortable hours trapped together.
“Well, that’s…” Grant rocked back and forth on his heels, his smile trembling at the corners. “That’s-that’s great. I’m glad to hear that.”
Sure, Grant.
Pots clanged in the kitchen, arousing my attention. “We hired a personal chef to come in,” Aunt Poppy supplied. “Just for tonight.”
“What’s the occasion?”
Grant and Aunt Poppy exchanged a look, and I pretended not to notice the ring on her left hand when she folded her arms over her chest.
“You being here. I’m a terrible cook,” Grant rushed out. “And your Aunt Poppy?—”
“Can’t boil water without burning it,” she said around a loud titter.
I indulged them with a nod, scanning the foyer, motes of dust gleaming in the grey light filling the transom windows on either side of the door, settling on the ornate wood surfaces. The Grant family had lived in the lopsided redbrick Victorian farmhouse with its steeply pitched roof for well over a hundred years.
A long time ago, I’d thought I’d live here someday, too.
I’d been here hundreds of times, yet this house felt foreign to me as if I’d never been here at all. An awkward silence descended upon us, my ears picking up on a distinct crackle in the adjacent parlor room.
I remembered that sound. It used to be my favorite. Now I associated it with—my tongue swelled in my mouth, bile teasing the back of my throat, the memory threatening to surface.
Toeing out of my shoes, my legs moved of their own volition, stilling in the double-cased arch of the parlor. Embers snapped along lit logs inside the hearth contained behind a decorative screen.
I’d smelled the smoke outside when I’d gotten out of the car. I’d hesitated, the fear temporarily transfixing me. It was the weight of his arrogant stare in the window that motivated me to move.
I jolted under Aunt Poppy’s touch. “Sorry, Sutton.” She stepped back, hands held up. “We… I wasn’t thinking… the fire?—”
“It’s fine.”
My gut tightened at the unmistakable creak from the stairs, my fingernails biting into my palms as a nervous current of anticipation sent static shocks skittering down my limbs.
The gates of hell had opened. The devil walking freely among us.
The one I’d loved.
The one who’d maimed me.
The one I’d wished killed me instead.
I tracked his towering frame on his descent, profile tight, the muscle in his jaw bouncing. He collected my hat from the floor and rotated it in his thick, bulky hand.
His mouth hooked in a smarmy simper, dark eyes tapering.
“You dropped this.” That gruff, dangerously low voice, so unlike his father’s, set off a constriction of knots in my belly, commanding my attention. “Wouldn’t want you to be seen without it.”
He tossed the hat my way, landing at my feet.
I flinched.
“ Damien .” Grant said his son’s name under his breath like a warning, a discussion they’d already had.
His late wife had been asking for trouble when she instructed their son to be named after the kid from The Omen .
I swallowed the razorblade-like lump in my throat and somehow steadied my voice. “Thanks for the hospitable welcome, Satan.” His smirk deepened. “Hell treating you well these days?”
“You tell me, Sutton.”
“You. Promised,” Grant gritted.
“Relax, Dad.” Damien’s stare raked over me, committing every detail to memory, hunting for the weak points. “It’s all in good fun, isn’t that right?” Cold brown eyes stranded on my lips for a beat too long, and I swore he was buying himself time, so he didn’t have to really look at me, at it . His chest rose, holding still for two beats. “Just two friends catching up.”
Friends . We were never meant to be friends.
We’d always been destined to be something more.
Lovers.
Now enemies.