Chapter 23 #2
The blood in my veins turns to ice water. The insinuation is clear, the accusation unmistakable. He wants people to think someone hurt him, that he’s being abused by his Alphas.
The worst part is how effective the performance will be. How many of his followers will leap to his defense, send him messages of support, and offer to hunt down the monster who would mark such delicate skin.
With a shaky exhale, I do what I should have done a long time ago and block him on all my socials. It should have come with a sense of relief.
It doesn’t.
As I shove the phone back in my pocket, the image remains burned into my vision. My hands tremble as I try to return to the delivery schedule, the columns of dates and items blurring into meaningless shapes.
One of the younger carpenters pauses beside me, tool belt jingling with each shift of his weight. “You okay, boss?”
“Fine.” The word comes out sharper than intended, and I soften my tone. “Just trying to decipher my own handwriting.”
He chuckles, accepting the lie, and moves on to the next task.
Across the site, Jared steps in to help unload a pallet of insulation, his back to me as he lifts, his shoulders flexing beneath his jacket with each haul.
For a heartbeat, memory slams through me of his warmth under my hands, the solid line of muscle along his spine, and the sharp breath he drew when my fingers traced it. Then the image of Auren’s bruised wrist replaces it, sending my stomach into a churn.
I never struck him, but I can recall too many evenings when I walked through the door only to find him injured, shame washing over me for not taking better care of him. And how he’d reinforce my feelings of guilt by walking around for the next week, displaying those wounds to gain sympathy.
That post is just another tool in his endless need for attention.
What I don’t understand is why he’s doing this now, when he finally has his “perfect” pack. Or why his actions still stir up doubt in me after all this time.
“Emily?” Nathaniel steps into my line of sight. “The crew’s asking about the hallway fixtures. Where do you want them installed first?”
I stare at him, mind blank, before my professional training kicks in. “Tell them—no, wait—just have them do the west wing first. Painters are still working on the second floor.”
He studies my face, concern evident in the furrow of his brow. “Are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Not a ghost, I think, but a demon I thought I’d exorcised. “Just wrestling with supply chain issues. Nothing new.”
Nathaniel accepts this, though doubt lingers in his expression. As he walks away, I turn back to the clipboard, forcing myself to track the lines, willing my brain to process the information. Focus on what’s real, what’s here.
Not Auren’s lies or Jared’s longing looks or the confusion that swirls between them, impossible to separate.
The afternoon crawls by in a haze of conversations I can’t quite focus on.
My body goes through the motions, checking off completed tasks, directing crew members, but my mind circles back to that photo like a moth to flame.
Each vibration from my phone pocket sends a jolt through my system, adrenaline spiking, and I have to resist the urge to unblock him several times.
Rain continues to fall, not the driving downpour of morning but a steady, insidious drizzle that soaks through every seam and gap.
Boot prints fill with water almost as soon as they form, tarps sag under the weight of collected rain, and workers curse as cold droplets find their way down shirt collars.
I run my hand along the countertop, checking for uneven seams where the caulk meets the backsplash.
The painters are finishing touch-ups in the dining room, and the faint scent of latex and sawdust lingers beneath the sharper tang of rain seeping through the open doorway.
Outside, puddles have swallowed half the gravel pathway.
“Emily?” Nathaniel touches my elbow, breaking through the noise of rain and drilling. “Did you catch my update about the lumber delivery?”
I straighten too fast, the world tipping before it steadies. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked if we should cancel tomorrow’s delivery if the rain keeps up. The ground’s too soft for a four-wheeler to safely get back up from the docks.”
“Right.” My mind catches up a beat late. “If they leave it at the dock, we can cart it up ourselves.”
“That’s a lot of extra work.” His pen taps the clipboard. “We could postpone until Monday. Let the ground dry.”
“Monday puts us behind schedule.” The words come out on autopilot, my mind still distracted.
“But if we tear up the new landscaping with carts—”
“We won’t.” The words come out sharper than I intend, and I force a breath. “We’ll lay down plywood to protect it.”
Nathaniel hesitates, studying me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine.” I brush past him toward the new check-in area, where a pair of workers are installing light fixtures. “Just keeping us moving.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch him exchanging a look with Blake, who’s shaking rain from his coat in the entryway. The unspoken concern crawls across my skin, unwanted but not unwarranted.
Later, I’m double-checking fixture placements with the electrician when Clint passes by with two laborers, all three of them tracking muddy boot prints across the cardboard that protects the new flooring.
“Hey, boss!” Clint calls, grinning. “Hear about the electrician who went to the doctor?”
I blink, my brain lagging. “What?”
“The electrician who went to the doctor,” he repeats. “Doctor said he had a terminal illness!”
The laborers laugh.
I don’t.
Clint mimics connecting wires, still grinning. “Terminal? Get it?”
“Right. Funny,” I acknowledge. “Make sure those plates match the antique bronze order, will you?”
His grin falters, and guilt settles heavily on my shoulders.
By four o’clock, the rain has turned the site into a mud pit. The painters are packing up early, muttering about humidity and drying times. The steady hammer of rain on the temporary roof blurs with the pounding at my temples.
“Let’s call it,” I yell, sweeping my arm in a wide arc to get their attention above the racket. “Pack up and secure the site. We’ll reassess in the morning.”
Relief flows through the crew, bodies straightening from hunched positions over work that was growing more frustrating than productive. Tools rattle into boxes, tarps snap over materials, and voices rise with end-of-day plans involving hot showers and cold beers.
I stand by the site trailer, clipboard tucked under my arm, reviewing tomorrow’s schedule. My shoulders ache from hours of tension, and the knot forming at the base of my neck promises a headache by evening.
The last of the crew filters past, nodding goodbyes or raising hands in silent farewells. The security lights flicker on as the dense clouds hide the daylight, casting the worksite in harsh white light that turns the puddles into mirrors.
Footsteps squelch through mud behind me, and I recognize who it is before I turn, the awareness prickling across my skin like static electricity.
“Thought you might want this.” Jared holds out a thermos, steam curling from the open top. Rain beads on his jacket, each droplet catching the security light. “You left it in the equipment shed earlier. I went ahead and topped it off over at Kyle’s cabin. Figured you could use the extra heat.”
I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch, and breathe in the cinnamon he added. “Thanks.”
He stands next to me, not speaking, and not leaving, water dripping from the brim of his cap onto his shoulders. The quiet stretches between us, punctuated only by the patter of rain and the distant call of the last workers heading down to the dock.
“You okay?” Jared finally asks.
“Just tired,” I say, the lie overused and unconvincing.
Jared shifts his weight, boots sinking in the mud. “You’ve been checking your phone all day.”
It’s not a question, but it demands an answer all the same. I take a sip from the thermos, buying seconds to come up with a response. “Work never stops, even when we do.”
“Emily, come on,” he says, a plea and a challenge wrapped into one. “Don’t pretend with me.”
Rain drips from the brim of my hard hat, and a drop lands on my cheek, trailing down to my jaw.
The clipboard creaks in my grip. “I said I’m fine.”
Jared studies me, the concern in his expression cutting deeper than anger would. “Okay.” He steps back, creating more distance. “Just wanted to check.”
“I appreciate it.”
He accepts the dismissal for what it is. “See you on the taxi then.”
“Actually.” I swallow hard. “I need to finish up some paperwork. I’ll take the later boat. Go ahead and take the truck home. I’ll catch a cab.”
Another lie, transparent as the rain. We both know there’s no paperwork that can’t wait, no reason to stay except to avoid the quiet intimacy of sitting beside him on the near-empty evening water taxi.
“Right.” His whole body droops. “Well, see you at home then.”
Home. The word hangs in the space between us, loaded with everything I’ve been trying not to acknowledge. My cottage has become home to both of us, filled with his presence in spaces that were empty before.
“See you there,” I manage past the pain lodged in my throat.
He turns to go, shoulders hunched. As he walks away, mud sucks at his boots, and in a dozen steps, he disappears around the corner of the Homestead.
Only then do my knees give out. The thermos tumbles from my hand, spilling fragrant coffee on the ground as the pain in my chest steals my breath. Gasping, I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, blocking out the harsh security lights and the darkening worksite.
What am I even doing, besides hurting us both?
I can’t tell what’s right or wrong anymore, and I have no idea how to push through this uncertainty.