Chapter 6
Hunter
I’m still unsettled about the vase.
That shouldn’t surprise me. Hours later, and it’s lodged under my skin like a splinter that refuses to work itself out. I tell myself I was right—she had no business touching it, no business filling it with roses like she owns the place, like she knows anything about what that vase carries for me.
But every time I replay it, I don’t see the vase. Her face flashes back at me, how her expression fell, how her shoulders folded in. The way she whispered, I didn’t mean to upset you, before quietly putting everything back like she’d broken something she couldn’t repair.
I’ve buried worse memories than that. This one shouldn’t be clinging.
And yet it refuses to let go. I push away from my desk, the chair rolling behind me.
My monitor is a blur of numbers and contract renewals I can’t focus on.
The air in my office feels thick. Stifling and pressing in from every direction.
I need a reset.
I step into the hallway. Adaline walks out of the kitchen, and the air between us tightens like a held breath.
She’s holding a mug with both hands, curled around it like it’s the only solid thing keeping her grounded.
Her eyes widen, her spine stiffens, like she’s just run into something she wasn’t prepared to face. Or something she hoped she wouldn’t.
Can’t even blame her.
I was going to call her to my office. Go over her contract and reinforce rules. Keep things clean. Professional. But now all I can think of is the way she flinched in the kitchen this morning, like my voice held a blade.
And she does it again.
She takes one small step back—barely anything, but I notice it anyway. Like she’s bracing for impact. Something sharp hits my chest. Quick. Unwelcome. Almost painful.
I hate that.
I clear my throat, force my voice into something clipped. Controlled. “We’ll move the meeting.” I jerk my chin toward my office. “Tomorrow. I don’t have time tonight.”
The words sound colder than I intend. Final. Unarguable. Her fingers tighten around the mug.
“Oh. Okay,” she says. A fast nod. Too fast.
“Whatever works for you,” she adds.
There it is again, the way her eyes skim past me instead of meeting mine. Like she’s trying not to provoke whatever monster she thinks she’s standing in front of.
No way should that bother me.
I give a short nod. “Good. Then we’re done for the day.”
She steps aside to let me pass, holding her breath until I’m several feet away. I pretend not to notice. I shouldn’t care. I repeat it like a chant all the way down the hall, even as her step back replays behind my eyes. I do not care.
I push out the back door and into the breezeway. The air is cooler here, carrying the scent of lingering roses from the patio. I head straight for the garage, punching in the code with more force than necessary.
The second I step inside, the house disappears. Oil, rubber, mixed with metal. I turn on classical music, and I feel it vibrating against the concrete. Everything in here is familiar. Predictable. Everything has order.
People don’t. Machines do.
I roll my shoulders, inhale deeply, and cross to the workbench. A wrench fits into my hand with the kind of certainty I wish the rest of my life had. I move to the open hood of the car—my oldest project, my longest escape, and let the rhythm take over.
Left. Tighten. Right. Adjust. Repeat. But even here, she finds me—Adaline, rearranging roses in my mother’s vase. Adaline, in the hallway, stepping back like I’m dangerous.
Adaline was in town today.
I hadn’t asked where she went. Didn’t have to.
Mrs. Lane mentioned it as if it were nothing. “Liam took her into town. He’s thrilled Adaline is here.”
And I know this town. I know exactly what Adaline must have heard about me.
The fire. The near arrest. The whispers that follow me everywhere.
Cold, brutal, and dangerous.
I’ve spent a decade not correcting any of it. Let them talk. Let them make me their monster. It never mattered until I saw the look on her face. Like she’s already decided what I am.
As if she were holding something she didn’t know where to put. Information. Rumors—Me.
The wrench suddenly feels heavier.
Every other caretaker came from this town. They all knew the stories before setting foot inside the mansion. It never bothered me. They came, they worked, they left. No attachment. No expectations. But this?
She is different. Or I thought she was. We clashed on differences of opinion since yesterday. I get that; we are complete opposites. She is messy. I like rules. But now she is judging me like everyone else.
And that infuriates me.
I tighten a bolt too hard; metal shrieks in protest. I slam the wrench down, breath coming rougher than I want to admit. I can see it in her now.
The averted eyes. The step back. The careful, quiet way she moved past me, like she’s avoiding something sharp. I drag a hand down my face. Why should it matter if she believes I’m exactly what they say?
She barely knows me. She’s been here forty-eight hours. She’s temporary. Replaceable. Meant to keep her distance.
That was the plan. Still should be the plan.
And yet—something tight coils in my chest. Something I can’t loosen with tools or classical music or the comfort of metal and grease.
Because for the first time in years, someone inside this house might believe the worst about me.
And I hate that it matters.
I grab another tool, something heavier, and start tightening a bolt that doesn’t even need tightening. I force myself to stop; my grip loosens. My shoulders fall. I blow out a breath through my nose, trying to calm myself.
Slow down, before you destroy something that actually matters.
I set the tool down and brace my palms on the edge of the car, letting the familiar scent of oil and steel pull me back into myself. But my mind doesn’t settle. It drifts—to this morning on the patio.
To her.
Adaline in that yellow dress, sunlight catching in her hair, laughing with my aunt like she belonged here. Like she’d always belonged here. I remember the way the sight hit me—sharp and unexpected. I remember noticing, against my better judgment, how pretty she looked.
Hell, I remember feeling something like a buzz between us. Something I’m not supposed to feel with anyone who works for me. Something I told myself I imagined.
And now?
That buzz is gone. Replaced by fear, a step back, and a lowered gaze. I drag a hand through my hair, irritation flaring hot again. Not at her—at myself. The fact that it bothers me. That I even care how she looked at me.
This is why closeness always comes with a cost for people like me. People who don’t trust easily, who don’t want their past used against them. To talk without judgment or expectation. To be real with someone who couldn’t hurt them because they didn’t know who they were.
My thoughts drift to Wind.
Wind makes everything feel easier. She listens without prying. She understands without knowing. She talks to me like I’m worth hearing, like I don’t have to defend myself first.
She doesn’t fear me. Or treat me with suspicion. Or like she’s already decided what kind of person I am. Maybe that’s why the urge hits me hard and sudden.
I need to talk to her tonight—not to hide, but to remember who I am when no one’s afraid of me.
Tell her something real. Not everything—never everything but the truth about the thing clawing at my ribs.
That letting people close terrifies me. And that I’ve spent half my life building walls and the other half reinforcing them. That someone new is pushing at those walls without meaning to.
That it’s been a long time since I cared what anyone thought of me, and I hate that I care now.
But the thought twists unexpectedly. A darker question slips in before I can stop it.
What if Wind heard the same rumors Adaline did? What if she knew the things this town says about me? Would she judge me?
Would she pull back the moment she learned the truth—like everyone else always does?
I’ve wondered about this before, but never with this kind of weight. I grip the edge of the workbench until my knuckles pale.
I don’t know. And the not knowing feels far too much like the beginning of something I can’t control.