Chapter 13 The Bargain
Chapter thirteen
The Bargain
Snow White dreamed of those blue eyes again.
In the dream, she was back in the stable, standing between Grimm’s warm side and the boy with the wheat-blonde hair.
He held out his hand, the silver token glinting between his fingers, and when she reached for it, their hands slipped together instead.
He laughed softly and tugged her closer.
“You can’t run forever,” he said in the dream.
“But you don’t have to keep running alone.
” His mouth brushed hers—gently, not like the rough clash in the clearing—and something unknotted in her chest.
Voices floated in from outside the dream, singing some work song she couldn’t quite make out the words to. Deep, rough voices. Male. The dream shifted.
She was still in the stable, but the walls around her had changed—rougher, darker. The air smelled less of straw and more of earth and sweat and something metallic, like iron dust. The boy’s face blurred, then faded.
The singing grew louder. Snow White’s dream dissipated. Her lashes fluttered. The cottage door creaked open.
Six men trudged into the back door of their home, voices trailing off as they wiped sweat and dust from their faces.
They were solid men, broad-shouldered, their hair and beards streaked with grime from the mines.
Their clothes bore the indelible stains of coal and earth. Boots clumped on the floorboards.
“Long day,” one muttered.
“Aren’t they all?” another replied.
They stopped short when they saw the horse through the small window—a black stallion tied out front, peacefully grazing.
“Whose beast is that?” Gage asked, frowning.
“Don’t know,” Dax said, the automatic leader’s wariness sharpening his gaze.
They exchanged looks.
“Someone’s in our house,” Gage said, hand going instinctively to the knife at his belt.
Drew didn’t say anything at all. He rarely did. But his eyes were alert as he stepped just behind Dax’s shoulder.
They moved through their home warily, boots softening on the old boards.
At first, they saw only the usual disarray: mugs left in the sink, a shirt draped over a chair, the stew crock on the table with a hunk of bread missing.
Then their boots followed the trail of discarded crumbs into the nearest room.
Toward the largest bed. A small figure lay sprawled across the mattress, cloak half on the floor, hair a dark tangle on the rough pillow, blankets twisted around her thighs.
“Saints preserve us,” Bennett whispered.
“Not saints,” Harry joked. “Something with a sense of humor.”
She looked nothing like the dainty heroines of court tales.
Her face was smudged with travel grime. A strand of hair clung to the corner of her mouth.
One arm lay flung above her head, revealing the dark bruise of sore ribs where the dress gaped.
Her chest rose and fell with the slow, deep rhythm of true exhaustion.
Gage’s eyes traveled over every inch of her—lingering, unabashed. He was aroused before he even realized it, the sight of a real woman, soft and breathing and right here, hitting his starved senses like a blow.
“Who is she?” Bennett whispered, more to himself than anyone, cheeks reddening as he realized how intently he was staring.
“An intruder,” Gage said, though the word came out rough. “Or a gift.”
“We don’t get gifts,” Dax said, but his voice lacked conviction.
It had been a long time since any of them had even seen a woman up close, let alone had one asleep in their bed. Years of isolation and underground shifts had honed their edges, starved their softer parts.
Silas tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle. “She’s pretty,” he said in his slow drawl. “Even like that.”
“Especially like that,” Harry amended with a grin.
“Shut it,” Gage said again, though his own gaze was glued to the flash of cleavage where her bodice had slipped.
Drew shifted, hands flexing unconsciously.
Silas, standing slightly behind the others, sneezed. A sudden, unmistakable, echoing achoo that startled everyone—including the sleeping girl.
Snow White’s eyes flew open. For a moment she had no idea where she was. The low ceiling, the unfamiliar shadows, the weight of several blankets over her—all of it hit at once. She sat bolt upright with a little gasp.
“Oh,” she said. Because there, at the foot and sides of the bed, stood six men. Tall. Wide. Handsome. Dirty. Staring at her as if she’d dropped from heaven. For a heartbeat, none of them moved.
From Snow White’s perspective, they were a wall of muscle and stubble and stunned expressions.
One—Dax—had a calculating, almost clinical gaze, his eyes sweeping over her as if taking stock of goods for trade.
Gage’s expression was a scowl half-melted by the unmistakable bulge in his trousers.
Harry’s grin was already beginning to tug at his lips.
Silas blinked slowly, a little out of sync with the rest. Bennett went scarlet and dropped his eyes to the floor, then dragged them back up in guilty little darting looks.
Silas wiped his nose on his sleeve, trying to pretend his sneeze had not just happened.
Drew simply watched, eyes wide and bright, hands twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch, but didn’t dare.
Snow White snapped into anxiety. Her dress had ridden low during sleep; the rough neckline exposed more of her breasts than she’d ever let show on purpose.
Her legs, tangled in the blankets, were bare from mid-thigh down, smudged with dirt, a bruise shadowing one shin.
She was dirty, she smelled bad, she was half-naked.
Heat rushed to her face. “I—” she stammered, fumbling at the blanket to cover herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I was just—”
Dax’s voice cut through, clipped and steady. “Who are you…” he asked, “and what are you doing in our house?” The authority in his tone steadied her a fraction. Authority she could answer to. She’d been doing that her whole life.
“My name is Snow White,” she said, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I—” Her throat closed for a second on the urge to say Princess Shay.
That title felt like a joke now, somewhere between tragic and obscene.
If they knew who she was, would they help her or throw her out in the cold?
The nickname felt safer. “I was riding through the woods. I got lost. I hadn’t eaten in days.
I saw your cottage and…” She looked guilty.
“There was bread. On the table. I thought I’d leave something in return, but I was so tired and I—I just sat down for a moment, and I must have fallen asleep. ”
Silas huffed. “That’s a fairly honest confession for a thief. Snow White, what kind of name is that? Sounds funny!”
“I’m not a thief,” she protested. “I mean—I suppose I am, but not usually. I’ll work to repay you, I swear it. I’ll clean, or cook, or—” She floundered. “Something.”
Dax’s gaze moved from her face to the torn state of her clothes, to the calluses on her hands, to the way she held herself, hunched as if she expected a blow. “All alone?” he asked. “No one with you?”
“No,” she said. “It’s just me. And my horse.” She nodded vaguely toward the window where Grimm’s hindquarters were visible.
Harry interjected sarcastically, “Oh, we need to stable a horse, too? Make yourself at home, apparently.” He added with a half-smile and a half-chuckle.
Gage snorted. “Pretty girl,” he muttered. “Pretty story.”
Snow White’s stomach twisted. “It’s the truth,” she said. “I have nowhere else to go.”
Silas yawned. “She looks tired enough, Dax. If she’s lying, she’s very committed to it.”
Bennett’s hands twisted in the hem of his shirt. “Let her stay,” he blurted, then went redder when five heads turned toward him. “I mean—just for the night. We can decide in the morning. She looks like she needs help.”
Gage’s scowl deepened. “We don’t even know who she is. For all we know, she’s bait for some bandit gang. We bring one pretty stray in and wake up with our throats cut.”
Harry shrugged. “Then at least we’ll die smiling.”
Dax shot him a look, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Snow White clutched the blanket tighter. Her heart hammered. She could feel their gazes on her: hot, curious, hungry. Not like the look Liora gave her, cold and weighing. These were raw. Honest. Unvarnished. Did she feel frightened or excited? Something about these men made her feel safe.
“Please. I’ll do anything,” she said, the words spilling out.
She was so desperate for human interaction, somewhere to go, somewhere to belong, “Truly. I can sweep, or chop wood, or tend the garden. I grew up…” She swallowed the word in a castle.
“…with people who worked. I can learn how to scrub floors and—”
“Cook?” Harry cut in hopefully.
She hesitated. “No,” she admitted. “I can’t cook.”
“Clean?” Silas asked lazily.
“I can try,” she said. “I can learn.”
Gage looked unconvinced. “What kind of woman doesn’t know how to cook or clean? What are you—some kind of princess?” he said sarcastically.
Dax exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
The men exchanged a series of looks that spoke of years spent together, their conversations long since distilled into small gestures.
Some said why not. Some said this is trouble.
Some said trouble might be better than the way things are.
“We don’t have room or need for charity cases,” Dax said finally, voice firm.
“We work hard. We’ve made a life here. We don’t need anything to change. ”
Snow White’s throat closed. “I won’t be a burden,” she said. “I’ll earn my place. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll do anything you need around here. Please. I’m—” She hated the tremor in her voice, but couldn’t stop it. “I’m desperate. And I’m alone. And I have nowhere else to go.”
Silence.