2. Paige
2
PAIGE
W hen I was little, I used to dream about the perfect family. You know the kind—where parents come to your school plays and stick your artwork on the fridge, where everyone sits down for dinner together and actually talks about their day. Not the kind where you’re squeezed in at an overcrowded table, picking at your food while your older siblings argue over who gets the car this weekend. Not the kind where your mom gets that pinched look on her face every time she has to buy you new shoes because you outgrew the old ones again.
Okay, so becoming a mail-order bride wasn’t exactly part of those childhood fantasies either. But neither was working at my hometown’s grocery store, watching my high school classmates move on to college or cool jobs in the city while I restocked produce and prayed the register wouldn’t jam again. And then the store closed, and suddenly even that boring stability vanished. Try finding a job in a town where the biggest employer just went under.
Every single one of my job applications went unanswered. My savings dwindled. My oldest sister Jane kept sending me links to job listings in cities hours away, like I could just magically afford to move. Mom and Dad didn’t offer to help—they never did. Pretty sure they’d used up all their parental energy on my siblings before I came along as their surprise “blessing” twenty-three years ago.
That’s how I ended up on the mail-order bride website one night, curled up in my childhood bedroom with its faded butterfly wallpaper, scrolling through profiles of men looking for wives. Most of them made my stomach turn. I received creepy messages about wanting “submissive” women, or straight-up asking for my measurements. But then Hawk messaged me.
Your profile caught my attention. Tell me about yourself.
That’s all he wrote at first. No gross comments about my photos, no trying to impress me with how much money he made. Just genuine interest. When I asked questions, he actually answered them. Told me about his life on the mountain, about spending months perfecting a single wood carving until every detail was just right. I kept waiting for him to turn weird like the others, but he never did. His messages were reserved, almost shy, but there was something solid about them. Real.
When he asked me to be his wife, my hands shook so bad I could barely type. It felt crazy—who agrees to marry someone after a month of messages exchanged online? But that was the whole point of being on the website. And in a bizarre, inexplicable way, it felt right. Like maybe this was my chance to finally build something of my own, something that couldn’t be overshadowed by my siblings or dismissed by my parents.
Now that I’m here, though…I’m not so sure. The bedroom window I’m peering out of shows nothing but dense forest and Hawk’s workshop, where he practically fled after our awkward first meeting. My throat gets tight when I think about how he could barely even look at me.
What if he’s disappointed? What if I’m just as unwanted here as I was at home?
I push away from the window and yank the veil from my hair, letting it fall to the floor. Standing here feeling sorry for myself won’t help anything. Determined to do something productive, I walk into the living room. It’s a mess of coffee cups and dirty clothing, looking more like a bachelor cave than a home.
Well, I can fix that at least. Maybe if I show Hawk I can make this place better, he’ll start seeing me as someone who belongs here.
And so I get to work. Over the next few hours, I transform the cabin. Every surface gets dusted, every cup finds its way to the kitchen sink, every shirt gets folded into neat piles. I even discover an actual coffee table under all the clutter. The whole time I work, I imagine Hawk coming back inside, seeing how much nicer everything looks. In my head, he smiles. Tells me I did good. Maybe even…
The front door creaks open. My heart jumps into my throat.
Hawk fills the doorway, somehow looking even bigger than he did a few hours ago. His eyes scan the room, and the color that floods his face isn’t the good kind. Not even close.
“What did you do?” His voice comes out strained, like he’s choking on the words.
“I…cleaned?” The proud feeling I had just seconds ago shrivels under his stare. “I thought it would be nice to?—”
“Please don’t move my things.” He cuts me off, each word precise and cold.
Oh. Oh. The sting of those words hits harder than any of my parents’ subtle digs ever did.
I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to hold myself together. “Right. Sorry. I won’t do it again.”
He shifts his weight, still not really looking at me. “You hungry?”
The abrupt subject change gives me whiplash. I watch him stride into the kitchen, his movements stiff and awkward as he pulls a pot from the fridge. The smell that fills the air as he heats it makes my nose wrinkle—some kind of meat soup that doesn’t smell like anything I’ve ever had before.
“Sit.” He points to a chair like I’m a dog he’s training.
I sink into the seat, feeling smaller by the second. The soup he sets in front of me looks like something that would grow in a swamp. Mystery meat chunks float in murky broth, accompanied by a ripped wedge of stale bread. But he’s watching me, so I force a spoonful into my mouth.
It takes everything I have not to spit it back out.
I force down a few more spoonfuls while Hawk methodically clears his bowl. He makes no effort to engage in conversation. What happened to the guy who sent me that long message about spending three days getting a bird’s wing just right? Who told me how sometimes the wood rebels against him, but that’s how he knows the piece is going to be special?
“Are you still working on the owl you told me about?” I finally ask, desperate to fill this awful silence with something, anything.
“Yep.” The word falls between us like a stone.
“I’d love to see it, if you’d like to show it to me.”
“It’s not done.”
Jesus. This man sitting across the table from me is nothing but walls and sharp edges.
The room starts to swim. Maybe it’s the soup—though I’m not even sure ‘soup’ is the right word for whatever this is. Or maybe it’s the crushing weight of realizing I’ve made a horrible, horrible mistake. But what options do I have? My whole life fits in that one suitcase. I can’t go home.
“I need to lie down.” My chair scrapes against the floor. I stand up only to discover that my legs feel like they’re made of jelly.
Hawk is beside me in an instant, his hands catching my arms. But his touch feels impersonal, like a doctor steadying a patient. Nothing like how a man should touch his bride.
“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” There’s worry in his voice, but it almost feels like he’s accusing me of something.
“I just need to lie down,” I say again, barely getting the words out.
The walk to the bedroom feels endless. Each step reminds me how far I am from everything I know, how completely I’ve gambled my future on a man who apparently can’t stand having me touch his stuff, let alone touch him. Hawk’s hands stay steady on my arms, but his grip is tense.
He helps me onto the bed, mumbles “Get some rest,” and disappears. When the door closes behind him, I curl under the covers and let the tears come.
So much for my dreams of finally finding somewhere I belong.