Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
ALLIE
Afire crackles in the hearth, soft golden light fanning across the living room. I stare into the flames, gaze distant, unseeing.
“Drink?” the cowboy asks, rounding the kitchen island.
I startle, eyes jumping to the whiskey and tequila bottles tucked beneath his kitchen cabinet.
Of course.
In one quick move, he grabs them by the necks, tucking them out of sight. Then, he turns, frowning.
I exhale sharply, the adrenaline of earlier washing back over me. Far from the first time Trevor’s been drunk. But uglier. “Tea or coffee, maybe. Just not that.” Though I try to deliver the words steadily, my voice still quivers at the end.
He nods, turning to rifle through the cupboard for two mugs.
A great gust slams against the side of the cabin. Timber and boards strain but hold. I shiver, imagining what it must feel like outside. Imagining Trevor alone and bleeding on the snowbank.
He’ll kill me for this.
“You okay?”
My eyes catch his. Anger flashes. If only he’d left well enough alone. If only I didn’t feel indebted to him. I nod, clenching my teeth.
He removes his Stetson, setting it brim up and stabbing thick, calloused fingers through his ebony hair. Then, he rests both hands on the white-tile countertop.
I grimace, purple and red taunting. “Your knuckles.” My gaze fixes on bruised and swollen flesh.
“Fine.”
“No,” I counter, spine straightening beneath my creamy cashmere sweater. My fingers go to the dainty heart-shaped locket at my neck, playing nervously with the cold metal. A gift from Grandpa. “I’ll wash them.”
“No need.” His voice is flat as he pulls his hands back, grimacing despite himself when he shoves them into his jeans pockets.
My cheeks burn with anger and determination. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”
Austin crosses his arms, face stubborn and hard.
I raise my chin defiantly.
Anything I owe him, I want resolved now.
Then, he shrugs, motioning me to follow him down the dark hallway into the bathroom.
He flips the light switch and searches for bandages, antibiotic ointment, and a brown bottle of peroxide.
The bathroom is too small. Or maybe he’s too big. Or maybe I’m just wound too tight for any enclosed space that isn’t my own.
“Sit,” I say, sharper than I mean to, grabbing the peroxide off the counter.
He hesitates. Of course he does. Like he’s deciding whether this is worth the trouble. Like he’s weighing me.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” My voice comes out clipped, defensive. “You’re bleeding.”
He finally lowers himself onto the edge of the tub, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. That’s already starting to piss me off. Trevor would be talking right now. Explaining. Apologizing. Accusing. Something.
Austin just holds out his hand.
I take it and immediately regret it.
His skin is warm. Solid. Calloused. There’s dried blood in the grooves of his knuckles, dark and rusty, and my stomach twists.
Trevor’s blood.
I pour the peroxide onto a cotton ball and scrub harder than necessary. He flinches.
Good.
“Ouch,” he mutters.
“You did this to yourself,” I snap, not looking at him. “By sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
The words feel rehearsed, like something I’ve said before. Maybe not out loud—but in my head, a thousand times.
He doesn’t answer.
That makes it worse.
“I had it handled,” I go on, pressing the cotton deeper, scouring like I can erase the image of Trevor’s face when Austin hit him. Shocked. Furious. Bleeding. “I didn’t need your help.”
“Didn’t look like it.”
I freeze.
Slowly, I look up at him. His expression hasn’t changed. Not smug. Not defensive. Just… flat. Certain.
Anger flares hot and fast.
“That’s why I asked to come with you,” I say bitterly. “Because I had to. After what you did.”
He pulls his hand back, flexing his fingers. “You didn’t have to do anything.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “You think I can just leave him after that? Do you have any idea how angry he’s going to be?”
Something flickers in his eyes. Gone before I can name it.
“You going back to him?” he asks.
“None of your business,” I fire back automatically, even as my chest tightens. The words feel thin. Defensive. I hate that he can probably hear it.
I grab his hand again and dab at his knuckles with the ointment, gentler now, like the anger leaked out of me all at once and left exhaustion behind.
“You think you know us,” I say, my voice shaking. “You think you saw something awful and that means you understand. But you don’t. You don’t get us.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“That was just… an ugly moment,” I insist. “Every couple has them. It’s not all the time. It’s not who we are.”
The silence stretches.
My sleeve rides up without me realizing. His gaze drops to my arm. The bruise is already blooming—blue and purple, shaped like drunken fingers.
Shame crashes through me.
“And that?” he asks quietly.
I yank my arm back, tugging at the sleeve. Panic spikes, sharp and blinding.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, the words tumbling over each other. “I just—I need a minute. I can’t—”
I don’t wait for him to answer. I turn and bolt down the hall, my heart hammering, every nerve screaming.
The bedroom door slams behind me.
Only then do I realize I’m shaking.