Chapter 9 Annabelle
T he late afternoon sun filters through the kitchen window, warming the flour-dusted air.
I’m barefoot, apron-clad, and elbow-deep in cinnamon sugar glaze for the last batch of pies.
Tomorrow is May Day, and I’m behind. The sweet buns cooled too fast, and the braided apple bread didn’t rise the way I wanted.
But the house smells like a memory: warm, bright, safe.
Floorboards creak behind me, a sound I’m coming to recognize like a heartbeat. When I turn, there he is, stretching like a cat, hand grazing his jaw, stubble catching the light.
Derek.
We returned home late last night after Emma’s false labor scare. I’d gone with them to the hospital and back, and we returned exhausted and without a baby.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough from sleep. “Smells incredible in here.”
Just like that, an ache blooms low in my belly.
I hand him a mug of coffee. My fingers brush his, and the contact crackles like a live wire. He doesn’t step away. I turn back to the counter, but I feel him—chest against my back, his breath warming the curve of my neck.
“Made it strong,” I say lightly. “Figured you’d need it.”
“I need you more.”
The words land like heat in my veins. He doesn’t backpedal. Doesn’t laugh it off. Just sets the mug down and wraps one arm around my waist, lips grazing the side of my throat.
“Derek…”
“You smell like vanilla and sunshine…and something that makes it real damn hard to be a gentleman this time of day.”
My body leans into his before my mind catches up. His hands slide to my hips, steady and grounding.
I should pull away. Should remind myself that nothing is real until the divorce is final. Until Mike is out of our lives. But right now?
I don’t want space.
I want him.
But under the heat and hunger is a ripple of fear. Because wanting something this much? It’s dangerous. That’s how it all started. At eighteen, trying to escape Huntz, I boarded a bus with a scholarship and a lie, and wound up in San Francisco, watching my life slip through someone else’s fingers.
Outside, tires crunch on gravel.
We spring apart like teenagers caught in the act.
Derek glances through the window. “It’s your brother. And Emma.”
I groan and scrub a hand down my face. “She better not be in labor again.”
He chuckles.
We head out. Emma waddles toward me in flip-flops and glory, glowing like a summer moon with a bun in the oven and zero patience for drama.
Eric flanks her, protective as ever. His eyes sweep over me, calculating. Not just assessing for Emma’s sake, but for mine, too. Like he knows a storm’s building and wants to make sure I have a life raft.
“Hey,” I say, voice catching.
Emma pulls me into a gentle hug. “Thanks for your help last night.”
“Of course,” I murmur. “You’ve got a flair for the dramatic. That baby’s got your timing.”
She smirks. “We figured we’d fill you in properly.”
We linger in the yard. Emma updates us on the baby. No real changes, though the doctor may induce after May Day. Eric grumbles about chickens escaping again and the baby goats they adopted yesterday. It feels like normal—like spring and hay bales and quiet joy.
Emma’s fingers land gently on my forearm. “You seem far away.”
I start to answer, but catch Derek’s gaze over her shoulder.
He’s watching me again like I’m a puzzle he’s willing to spend his whole life solving.
There’s a stillness in him that wasn’t there a moment ago.
A bracing. A readiness. Derek Fields, the man who fixes engines, fences, and everything in between. Except maybe, me.
“Just adjusting.” I force a smile. “I forgot how quiet it gets out here.”
Emma’s eyes narrow slightly, but she lets it go.
“Any word on those papers I gave you?” I ask.
“They should be processed in a couple of days,” she says. “And yes, they’ll be backdated.”
Relief ripples through me. “Thank you. Really. I appreciate you helping me with this.”
“Please. You’re talking to a woman who’s crowning a watermelon. This is easy. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
I laugh. “You’re just about to deliver and you want to help?”
“Believe me. I’m fine. Your parents are watching baby Albert, so I feel like I have all the time in the world. For now. But I do have something important to warn you about.”
She shifts in her chair, rubs her belly with a wince, and rolls her eyes. “Caroline submitted a petition to the May Day committee.”
My brows lift. “About what?”
“She wants to reduce the sugar content of all the festival’s baked goods by half. Claims it’s for ‘public prenatal safety.’”
I nearly drop my spoon into the cider jug. “She’s coming for the pies? My pies? I thought she turned a new leaf?”
“Going straight for the jugular about the sugar,” Emma confirms, deadpan. “She told the mayor your filling is a ‘diabetic time bomb wrapped in flaky propaganda.’”
My jaw drops. “She better brace herself. If she touches my pies, she’s gonna get a full-sugar ass-whooping. You think I can trust her if I need legal help?”
She leans forward. “You think you may need one?”
I meet her eyes and nod. “Yeah, I might.”
“My brothers swear by her,” Emma says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “But if you’d rather keep it distant, the Wagner brothers are based in New York. They’re old family friends and very, very good.”
“I may give Caroline a chance,” I say slowly. “People deserve second chances.”
Emma softens. “She’s already started the restraining order paperwork. You’re not alone anymore, Belle. Not in this.”
“Unless she touches my pies,” I mutter.
We laugh, loud and unfiltered, and when Derek and Eric join us with mugs of cider and slices of apple-rhubarb pie, it almost feels like peace.
Turns out Derek preserved last year’s apples, and there’s enough filling to carry me through until the orchards bloom again.
It’s almost like he knew I was coming home to bake.
After they leave, Derek disappears into the garage, and I finish up for the night, kneading the last of the dough, cleaning the countertops, and tucking the pies into labeled boxes.
Then I shower.
And that’s when I see them.
The bruises have been there since Mike grabbed me that first night, but until now I’ve refused to really look at myself. Today, there’s no avoiding them. They’re fully bloomed in ugly shades of purple and sickly blue across the insides of my thighs. I stare at them like they belong to someone else.
But they don’t.
They belong to me. To the past I can’t run from. To the man who still thinks he owns me.
Mike.
My stomach turns.
I twirl in the mirror, slowly, like maybe I can shake off the shame. The sundress flutters around my knees, soft cotton hiding the truth. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t see. And for a moment, I pretend.
Pretend that I’m not marked.
Pretend that tomorrow is just about pies and ribbon races and kissing Derek in the shade of the orchard.
But I can’t leave it to chance anymore.
Not with Mike in town. Not with the subpoena. Not with bruises that still bloom long after the hands are gone.
I walk back into the bedroom numb, and kneel beside the bed. My fingers slide beneath the frame, finding the fabric lining of my suitcase, tucked behind a row of folded sweaters.
The journal is still there—worn leather, stuffed with truths no one was meant to read and missing crucial pages. And beneath it, wrapped in a T-shirt, the pistol I swore I’d never need again.
I don’t give myself time to hesitate, but my hands shake as I pull them out.
Out the side door, I move through the fading light, past the orchard, past the hammocks, and into the RV. The pups stir slightly but don’t bark. In the back corner, I open the bench seat. I tuck the items inside and shove a roll of blankets on top.
It’s not perfect. But it’ll do.
If he comes, if I need them, I'll know exactly where to reach.
I hurry back to the house, scrubbing out mixing bowls and avoiding the ache in my chest when I notice the garage lights are still on.
Curious, I refill Derek’s coffee and head outside in my flip-flops. The sun has dipped below the orchard, casting long shadows across the gravel. The sky bleeds from rose to indigo, soft and slow.
As I head toward the open garage, something snags my attention near the gravel path.
A piece of paper flutters in the grass. A torn race flyer with one corner missing, the ink smeared from dew, and right beside it, a crushed cigarette butt.
Neither belong here.
Derek doesn’t smoke.
A chill slithers down my spine, even in the evening heat. I scan the trees, the orchard’s edge, but see nothing but shadows stretching long into the dusk.
In the garage, I find him under the Mustang, shirtless, legs jutting out, grease streaked across his jeans. The air smells like motor oil and him. A clang of metal echoes, followed by a low curse.
“Damn it… Wrench is gone again.”
He slides out on his back, wiping his hands with a rag and glaring at the empty hook on the wall.
“Second time in two days. Either I’m losing my damn mind, or someone’s messing with me.”
“You’re missing your second coffee,” I say, holding it out.
He stands and meets me in three long strides, but instead of taking a sip, he sets the mug aside on the bench and places both hands on my waist.
“You wear this for me?” he asks, voice low.
I know what dress I chose. Pale pink, loose and soft. One of his favorites. I see it in the way his gaze drops to where the hem flirts with my thighs. His fingers find the fabric, lifting it slightly.
Then he sinks to his knees.
“Annabelle.”
Fuck. My bruises.
It’s not a question.
I take a step back instinctively, pulling down the hem. “It’s fine. They’re old,” I whisper. “From before.”
His hands wrap around my calves, firm and steady. “They’re not fine. They’re on you.” His voice cracks. “Who did this?”
I don’t answer, because he already knows.
He doesn’t wait for permission. His lips brush one bruise, then another. Not gently. Devoted. Possessive.