Chapter 9 #2
I told myself I was checking on the horses. Making sure everything was in order before the day started. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but it wasn't the whole truth either. The truth was that I wanted to be there when she arrived. Wanted to make sure she knew she wasn't alone.
I was mucking out one of the empty stalls when I heard her footsteps—quiet, careful, the tread of someone who'd learned to move without being noticed. I kept working, didn't look up. Let her think I hadn't heard her.
She stopped at Bella's stall first. I heard the soft nicker of the mare, the rustle of straw as the foal—Hope, she'd named it, though she didn't know I knew—struggled to her feet.
Then a murmur, too low to make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable.
Gentle. Loving. The voice she used with the horses, when she forgot to be afraid.
I finished the stall I was working on and moved to the next one. Still didn't look at her. Just kept working, my movements steady and rhythmic.
After a while, I heard her move. Footsteps coming closer, then stopping.
I could feel her eyes on me, could smell the uncertainty in her scent—that faint lilac sweetness overlaid with tension and exhaustion.
I grabbed a second pitchfork from the rack and held it out without turning around.
An offering. An invitation. No words needed.
Silence. Long enough that I wondered if she'd take it.
Then her hand closed around the handle, her fingers brushing against mine for just a second. Her skin was cool, callused, the hands of someone who'd worked hard her whole life.
"Thanks." Her voice was rough, barely above a whisper, scratchy from crying or lack of sleep or both.
The single word came out hesitant, uncertain, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to accept what I was offering.
Her pale green eyes flickered to my face and away again, her grip tightening on the pitchfork handle until her knuckles went white.
I just nodded. Didn't need to say anything. She understood.
We worked in silence for the next two hours.
It should have been awkward. Two people who barely knew each other, working side by side without speaking. But it wasn't. There was something almost peaceful about it—the rhythm of physical labor, the smell of hay and horse, the quiet companionship of shared work.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye. The tension slowly bled out of her shoulders as she worked, her movements becoming more fluid, less jerky. The furrow between her brows smoothed out. Her breathing steadied.
This was what she needed. Not words, not comfort, not reassurance. Just presence. Just the knowledge that someone was there, asking nothing, expecting nothing, just... being.
I understood that need better than most.
Around mid-morning, we finished the last stall. Aster leaned on her pitchfork, breathing hard, sweat dampening her hair. I did the same, letting my muscles rest, enjoying the pleasant ache of honest work.
She glanced at me, then away. I could see her working up to something, gathering her courage.
"Why?" The word came out rough, uncertain, her voice still scratchy but stronger than before.
She was gripping the pitchfork handle tight, her knuckles white against the worn wood, her shoulders hunched slightly like she was bracing for rejection.
Her pale green eyes met mine briefly before skittering away, unable to hold the contact. "Why are you... why do you..."
She trailed off, unable to finish the question. But I understood what she was asking. Why are you being kind to me? Why aren't you treating me like a monster? Why are you here?
I considered the question for a long moment, turning it over in my mind. Words had never come easy to me. I'd spent too many years in silence, too many years communicating with fists and blades instead of language. But she deserved an answer, even if I had to dig deep to find it.
"Because I know what it's like." The words came out low, rough, like gravel scraping against stone.
I held her gaze, my pale blue eyes steady on hers, letting her see the truth of it.
My jaw was tight, a muscle jumping beneath my auburn stubble, my whole body still except for the slow rise and fall of my chest. "Being the one everyone's afraid of.
Being the monster in the room." I paused, my throat working as I swallowed down old memories, old shame.
"Being so certain you're going to hurt someone that you stop letting anyone close enough to try. "
Her breath caught. I heard it, saw the way her chest hitched, saw her eyes go wide and bright with sudden recognition. Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment she just stared at me like I'd spoken in a language she'd thought only she knew.
"How did you..." She stopped, swallowed hard, her throat working visibly beneath the pale skin of her neck. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper, fragile and raw, cracking on the edges. "How did you stop feeling like that?"
I was quiet for a long moment, really thinking about it. Not the easy answer, the comfortable lie. The truth. My pale eyes drifted to the stable window, where golden morning light spilled across the hay-strewn floor, then back to her face.
"I didn't." The word came out flat, honest, carrying the weight of years of struggle.
I shrugged one shoulder, a small, tired movement that pulled at muscles sore from the morning's work.
My voice stayed low, rough, the kind of quiet that cut deeper than shouting.
"Not completely. Some days are harder than others.
Some days I wake up and I'm right back there, ready to fight, ready to run.
" I paused, my jaw tightening, my pale eyes holding hers.
"But it gets quieter. The voice in your head that says you're dangerous, that you're too broken to be around people.
.. it gets quieter. Doesn't go away, but it gets easier to ignore. "
Aster was staring at me like I'd just handed her something precious. Her pale green eyes were bright, almost luminous in the stable's dim light, and her whole body had gone still. A map, maybe. A way forward through territory she'd thought was impassable.
"What helped?" Her voice was stronger now, steadier, something almost like hope threading through the roughness.
She'd turned to face me fully, her pitchfork forgotten, her whole attention fixed on my answer.
Her chin had lifted slightly, her shoulders squaring, like she was bracing herself to receive something important. "What made it... quieter?"
I thought about Reid, giving me a chance when I didn't deserve one. About Nolan, patching me up without judgment when I showed up at his door bloody and wild-eyed. About Kol, whose relentless cheerfulness had worn down my defenses like water over stone.
"This place." I gestured vaguely at the stable around us, at the ranch beyond, at everything I'd found here that I hadn't known I was looking for.
My voice was rough but certain, my pale eyes holding hers with an intensity that I rarely let show.
My hand dropped back to my side, calloused fingers curling slightly.
"These people. Having somewhere to belong.
" I paused, my jaw working, the words coming harder now.
"Having people who saw the worst of me and didn't run. "
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, glittering in the morning light like broken glass. She blinked them back, her jaw tightening with that stubborn determination I was starting to recognize, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
"I don't know how to do that." The words came out small, almost childlike, cracking on the last syllable.
Her shoulders hunched, her body curling in on itself like she was trying to make herself smaller.
Her voice dropped to barely a whisper, raw and vulnerable in a way that made something in my chest ache.
"Trust people. Let them in. I don't... I've never. .."
"You don't have to know how." I cut her off, my voice gentle but firm, the words coming easier now than they usually did.
I held her gaze, my pale blue eyes steady on her green ones, my whole body still and solid—an anchor in the storm I could see raging behind her eyes.
"You just have to show up. Keep showing up.
Let us show you that we're not going anywhere. "
She was silent for a long moment, processing. I could see the war happening behind her eyes—fear fighting with hope, caution wrestling with longing. Her hands unclenched, then clenched again. Her teeth worried at her lower lip.
Finally, she nodded. A small movement, barely perceptible, but it meant everything.
"Okay." Her voice was a whisper, fragile and uncertain, barely loud enough to hear over the soft sounds of the horses shifting in their stalls.
But there was something underneath it—something that sounded almost like determination.
She lifted her chin slightly, her pale green eyes meeting mine with a steadiness that hadn't been there before. "I'll try."
I nodded back. One sharp jerk of my chin, the same gesture I always used—but this time, it felt like a promise. My pale eyes held hers for a moment longer, something unspoken passing between us.
"That's all anyone can ask." My voice was low, rough with emotion I didn't usually let show, the words scraping against my throat like they'd been dragged up from somewhere deep.
I held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned away, reaching for a water bucket that needed filling. "Same time tomorrow?"
She hesitated, then nodded. I saw the ghost of a smile cross her face—small, uncertain, barely there, but real. The first smile I'd seen from her that wasn't directed at Bella or Hope.
"Yeah." Her voice was still rough, but stronger now, steadier. She straightened her shoulders, some of the tension bleeding out of her posture, her pale green eyes warming with something that might have been gratitude. "Same time tomorrow."
I headed out of the stable, my boots crunching on the gravel, my heart lighter than it had been in a long time.
The morning sun was warm on my face, the air crisp with the smell of hay and horses.
Behind me, I heard her murmuring to Bella and Hope, her voice soft and warm—the voice she used when she forgot to be afraid.
She was going to be okay. It would take time—trust always did—but she was going to be okay. We'd be here, all four of us, waiting for her to realize she was already home.