Chapter 2
Chapter Two
W hen I arrive, the cotton mill is packed.
The machinery has been shut down for the day and hauled to the floor’s edges, clearing a ring in the center of the room, though I can’t get a proper look with so many people here. Dozens of men jostle against one another, their foreheads glinting, their shirtsleeves rolled to their elbows. Here and there, jewel-toned skirts flash in the crowd, but for the most part, the place reeks of excitement and male bodies.
I wade into the chaos. Or try to, but those who notice me inevitably edge closer instead of further away. Eyes drop to my Mark as if pulled there.
Heat stains my cheeks. These men are probably only looking at my triquetra, but I never really know, considering its proximity to my neckline.
“Excuse me, please,” I say, but laughter and shouted bets swallow up my words.
A nearby man takes pity on me. He cups his mouth with work-roughened hands. “Move! Let the lady through!”
At that, the crowd parts—barely—and I squeeze forward. Someone trails calloused fingers along my forearms. Another someone grazes my neck with the back of a hand.
The touches are innocent, I know. Just a few bold souls trying to glean some luck, and none of them would actually grope me. They wouldn’t dare. Not after Weston broke four of Theodore Cavanaugh’s fingers last year—not to mention two of his ribs and his nose—after Theodore told half of Pine’s End he’d taken my virginity.
I’d never seen Weston as furious as when he made Theodore take it all back. In public.
Even though it wasn’t actually a lie.
The sea of bodies closes in again. The temperature ratchets upward until my blood simmers. Am I too late? Judging by the wet-sounding cracks echoing off the rafters, the fight is already underway.
Ragged cheers erupt. My less-than-impressive stature prevents me from seeing much, but luckily, the crowd shifts, granting me a sightline. And there he is. Weston Wildes.
My heart goes into freefall.
The moment imprints itself on my mind. He’s bare from the waist up, save for the linen strips wrapped around his hands. I’ve caught him mid-punch, one fist stretched while the other guards his chin, and it’s...breathtaking. He’s all long, clean lines and tanned skin, golden hair and angry eyes. His triquetra glints between his collarbones. The inverted point leads my eyes downward, over his sculpted chest and serrated abdomen, then to the twin lines that slant into his breeches.
Fortuna’s blessings, Theodore didn’t even begin to compare.
Which probably explains why I chose him. Because he didn’t matter. Because no one will ever matter like this man does.
Weston’s fist connects, and the world leaps into motion again. The other fighter’s head snaps back. Crimson droplets spray, but whoever the man is, he keeps his feet.
Impressive.
Weston tucks his fists and retreats a few feet, circling with the focus of a tiger preparing to pounce. If not for his Mark, he’d probably win most every fight, because he’s lethal. Poised. He’s fury cloaked in strength.
In other words, entirely different in the ring than he is with me.
The crowd in front of me shifts, blocking my view again. Something happens that makes everyone shout at once.
Panic flickers along my nerves. Weston looked fine a second ago, but that Mark of his invites misfortune. He courts disaster just by existing.
Someone lands a punch. The cheering intensifies. I push and shove, but I might as well hurl myself against a stone wall for all that the crowd yields.
Damnit. Ten more feet, and the radius of my magic would touch Weston’s. Our opposing forces would momentarily cancel out, but I can’t get close enough.
I wedge myself between two bodies and glimpse Weston knocking his opponent to the floor. He raises a fist. Muscle and sinew strain.
The din reaches a fever pitch, and for a second, I dare to hope he’ll win. That his abundance of skill will trump the odds forever stacked against him.
But something flashes overhead, yanking my gaze up to the rafters. There’s a... housecat up there, stalking along the beam over the ring. The animal looks innocent enough, but I know better.
When it comes to Weston Wildes, nothing is innocent. Or random.
My gaze skims along the rafter, then slams to a stop. A pit opens in my stomach. A hatchet lies in the cat’s path, directly atop the beam. Someone left a freaking axe up there, probably while making repairs. Now all it will take is one jostle of feline paws to send the hatchet plummeting onto some hapless victim below.
I know exactly who it will be, of course.
A gnarled cry rips from my throat. “Move! Let me through!”
But the fight has reached its pinnacle, and every eye is glued to the arena. I search frantically for something to throw. I’ll knock that cat to its death before I’ll see a blade buried in Weston’s skull.
But there’s nothing at hand. Just men, frenzied shouts, and the stench of perspiration.
Desperation turns my insides to water. With no other options, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl through the sea of breech-clad legs. I have to get to Weston. Insulate him with my luck. And I have to do it now .
Surprised shouts accompany my frantic burrowing. My lace skirts snag against the floorboards as splinters lance into my knees, but I don’t care. I’d rather shred this dress to ribbons than let that hatchet fall. From that height, it could kill him. Easily.
Fear throttles my airway as I squeeze between two pairs of polished black boots. No one steps on me, though. Not that they would. I’m too lucky for that .
The forest of legs thins. Suddenly, I’m free, my heart screaming as I stumble to my feet just inside the ring.
Weston freezes.
“Birdie?” he says, like he can’t believe I’m standing in front him.
My gaze flies to the ceiling, but it’s too late. The cat knocks the hatchet loose, sending the thing hurtling.
It arcs through empty space.
It’s headed straight for Weston.