Chapter 4
Casper
Penny sits across from me, shoulders tight, fork trembling just enough that only someone really paying attention would notice. And I am paying attention.
She tries to hide it behind polite smiles and those downcast lashes, but I catch everything.
“Pass the potatoes, son,” Dad says, pulling me back into the room. I hand him the dish automatically, my gaze never leaving Penny.
She startles when Mom piles her plate high, like she’s not used to someone serving her before she can protest. The way she murmurs “thank you,” all small and wary, makes my jaw go tight.
It’s like she’s bracing for correction. Lord.
It makes me want to drive straight back to Illinois and teach a man some manners with my fists.
But I clamp down on that, keep my voice even. The last thing she needs is another man’s temper. Lord, give me patience.
So I do the work that doesn’t need shouting. I watch. Quiet. Steady. I let my presence be the unspoken sentence: you are safe here. Under my roof, nobody will lay another hand on you.
When her eyes finally flick up and meet mine, I don’t look away. Can’t. Those whiskey-colored eyes are wide, wary, but there’s a flash in them, a little spark of fight, that almost knocks the wind out of me.
She flushes, drops her gaze to her plate, but not before I catch the hitch in her breath. She feels it too. The pull.
“Grace, eat your green beans before they get cold,” Mom scolds, light and easy. Laughter ripples around the table.
Conversation hums, Ethan winding into a story, Jude and Dad bickering about the game, silverware chiming against plates, and the smell of pork chops fills the air.
Through it all I keep stealing looks at her, watching the way her shoulders unclench like knots loosening one by one.
She takes a bite. She breathes. For the first time since I found her, she seems to let herself be.
She doesn’t know it yet. But she belongs here.
And hell if I don’t already want to make sure she never has to run again.
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