Chapter 15 #2
I watched him for a moment. “Sounds pretty intense.”
“Yeah, well, he grew up really poor. So he started with nothing and built everything himself,” he said.
“But he always believed that he had two things going for him. Hard work and good luck. He said he met tons of people over the years who were just as smart as him, just as capable, and had just as many good ideas. But they were never in the right place at the right time. Never in the right room. So they never made it.”
“Luck definitely plays a part,” I said, nodding slowly. “I think a lot of people don’t like to admit that. Especially rich ones.”
Rhys snorted. “No shit. They love to say it’s all hard work,” he said.
“Anyway, my grandfather wasn’t like that.
He credited his good fortune just as much as his work ethic, and he wanted to raise his family with the same understanding.
So my father, aunts, and uncles were all taught how lucky they were to be born into wealth, and they were also taught that they had to hold up the other end of it. ”
“By working hard?”
“Yeah. Not just coasting along and doing whatever they felt like, whenever they felt like it. Real work. Lots of hours. Like most other people in the world.”
“So then your parents passed that on to you?”
Rhys nodded. “Yeah. There were… rules.” His mouth twitched faintly. “If I wanted something, I had to earn it properly. No shortcuts.”
“Ah.”
“For example, if I wanted to go to a certain college, I had to get the grades for it and apply like anyone else. No legacy admissions, no calls made behind the scenes,” he went on, turning the ax in his hands.
“And when I was fourteen, I had to get a weekend job. Entry-level, minimum wage. No dropping my last name to get hired, either. I had to walk in, apply, and figure it all out myself.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Another small shrug. “And once I got it, I wasn’t allowed to quit. Didn’t matter if it sucked. I had to stick it out.”
“Oh.” My brows lifted despite myself. “Wow.”
Rhys snorted. “You don’t need to look so impressed. Regular people do that shit all the time and no one congratulates them.”
“I know. It’s just rare in your world.”
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
For a second, neither of us spoke. I suddenly became acutely aware of how close we were standing together in the small shed, along with the way the morning light cut in through the high window and caught along the line of his jaw.
I was experiencing a really bizarre kind of mental whiplash right now. After the frank conversation Rhys and I had just shared, I was actually starting to like him. The way he held himself. The confidence in his voice. His surprisingly down-to-earth personality.
But not even five minutes ago, I’d been staring at his shoes and spinning out, wondering if he was a psychotic murderer.
I dragged my attention back to the present, forcing myself to reset. “Anyway,” I said, clearing my throat slightly. “Ax throwing lesson?”
“Yeah. We should probably get to that.” Rhys stepped past me and moved toward the rack along the far wall. “Let’s start you off with something manageable.”
“Okay.”
“Weight matters,” he went on. “Too light, and you won’t get enough rotation. Too heavy, and you’ll fight it the whole way through the throw.”
“So what am I aiming for, then?” I asked.
His eyes flicked over me then, quick but assessing, like he was measuring more than just height or reach. “Control,” he said. “Always control.”
The way he said that word made something swoop low in my belly.
He selected a mid-sized axe, then held it out to me. “Try this one.”
I stepped forward and took it from him, the weight settling into my hand heavier than I expected, but not unmanageable.
We stepped back out into the early morning light and headed over to the throwing range. The ground there was packed dirt, scuffed and worn from use.
Rhys moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him even in the cool air.
“Feet shoulder-width apart,” he said, nudging my stance lightly with his shoe.
“Dominant hand on the handle, other hand just above it. You’re gonna bring it up to this height and release when your arms come forward.
Don’t flick your wrist. Let the weight do the work. ”
I nodded, trying to focus.
“Like this,” he added.
He stepped behind me then, even closer, one hand briefly closing over mine to adjust my grip, the other settling lightly at my elbow to guide the angle. The contact was brief, but it sent a sharp awareness through me anyway.
“Relax your shoulders,” he murmured. “You’re tensing up.”
I swallowed and forced myself to loosen my grip slightly.
“Good girl,” he said in a low voice. “Now throw.”
I drew the ax back, lifted it overhead, and hurled it forward. It hit the edge of the target with a dull thunk and dropped straight to the ground.
Rhys huffed out a quiet laugh. “Okay. Not terrible. Just an early release.”
He stepped past me to retrieve it, pulling it free from the dirt and handing it back.
“Again,” he said.
I reset my stance, trying to ignore the way my mind kept jolting and slipping.
“Focus,” Rhys added, softer this time.
I did. Or at least I tried to.
It was becoming increasingly difficult with every moment that passed, because every time he stepped in to adjust something, he was right there, close enough that the scent of him kept pulling my focus sideways.
It was impossible not to be aware of how solid and strong he felt behind me, how easily he could guide me, how easily he could do a lot of other things I really shouldn’t be thinking about right now.
We kept going like that for the next hour and a half; him correcting my stance, stepping in and out of my space with an ease that never stopped feeling strangely dangerous, while I threw again and again until the movements began to settle into something almost instinctive.
The axes finally started landing closer to where they were supposed to, my focus sharpening in flashes between the moments when it slipped right back to Rhys.
By the time we finally drifted back into the shed, my arms were aching in a way that felt satisfying, and there was a faint sense of pride sitting under everything else. I’d actually hit the target. Multiple times.
“See?” Rhys said, nudging the door shut behind us with his foot. “Told you you’d get it in the end.”
A small smile tugged at my mouth. “I think I got a few lucky shots,” I said.
“Nah.” He shook his head. “No luck involved today. You earned those shots.”
My smile widened, and I turned toward the rack, lifting the ax in both hands and reaching up onto my toes to slide it back into its slot. It was higher than I’d realized, and the angle was awkward, the head catching slightly against the wood.
“Hang on,” Rhys said.
I barely had time to register the words before he stepped in behind me. One of his hands landed on my waist, fingers spreading as he shifted me slightly to the side. My breath caught as his body lined up with mine, heat pressing along my back while he reached past me with his other arm.
The touch wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t light, either. It was possessive in a way that sent liquid warmth spiraling low in my stomach before I could stop it.
“There,” he murmured, guiding the ax smoothly into place. But his hand didn’t move. Neither did I.
My pulse stuttered, then picked up faster and harder.
You should step away, I told myself. But I didn’t. My fingers tightened against the wooden rack instead, holding myself in place.
Slowly, I turned my head.
The movement dragged Rhys into my peripheral vision, close enough that I could see the faint shadow along his jaw and the way his gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before lifting back to meet my eyes.
Heat curled low in my belly. I turned a little more until I was facing him properly, my back brushing the edge of the bench below the rack. Our eyes locked, and the air between us seemed to crackle.
That was all it took.
One second there was space between us. The next, Rhys’s mouth crashed against mine, and every coherent thought I'd been holding onto scattered instantly.
His kiss was rough and demanding, and he tasted like smoke and mint and pure male hunger.
One of his hands slid to the small of my back and yanked me flush against him, and I went without resistance, fingers bunching in the front of his shirt while my brain struggled to catch up with what my body had already decided.
This is insane, some distant part of me finally managed to whisper. Just an hour ago, you suspected him of murder. And part of you still suspects him.
I tried to consider that. I thought about the blood on his neck last night, the bloodstained shoes, the way he hadn't reacted when Mabry announced the camp closure. The way he always seemed to be so composed when everyone else was falling apart.
But then his teeth caught my bottom lip and the thoughts dissolved again. A sharp, breathless sound caught in my throat, and more heat rushed through me, spreading outward in a way that turned my knees to jelly.
Rhys pulled away suddenly, his eyes dark and turbulent as he looked down at me. “This place has a lock,” he said in a low voice.
“Do it.” I was breathing so hard I barely got the words out. “Lock the door.”
He crossed the shed in two strides and slid the bolt home with a heavy click. When he turned back, he dragged his shirt off in one rough motion and tossed it aside.
My mouth went dry at the sight of his tanned, muscular chest and defined abs.
Then he was on me again, hands everywhere, urgent and rough in a way that would leave marks on my skin.
He yanked my top over my head, unclipped my bra, and shoved my jeans down my thighs, stripping me down to nothing but my panties.
“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes raking over me. “You’re perfect.”