The Grace Year(67)

I sink back down to the bed. I don’t know how long we stay like this, sitting side by side, but the inch between us might as well be a mile.





“Ryker,” I whisper into the dark.

The fire has nearly gone out, the last of the embers barely clinging to life. For a brief moment, I wonder if he’s already left to go hunting for the night, but when I look toward the doorway, I glimpse the top of his head. He’s sitting on the floor next to me, leaning back against the mattress. I can tell by his breathing that he’s fast asleep.

I know it’s wrong, but I find myself reaching out to touch his hair. Skimming my fingers over the twisted ends sends a surge of warmth rushing through me. I’ve touched Michael’s hair a million times back in the county and never felt anything remotely like this. I know I should stop, but instead, I find myself threading my fingers in deeper.

Ryker sits up with a jolt.

Clenching my hand into a tight fist, I try to get control of my breath.

“Another nightmare?” I ask.

“Try to go back to sleep,” he whispers, staring into the dark.

“What do you dream of?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies. “They’re just dreams.”

I know he’s probably right, but it hurts to hear him say that, especially after I confided in him about the girl from my dreams, everything it meant to me.

As if he can sense my feelings, he forces his shoulders to relax and leans back against the bed, eyes fixed on the doorway. “I’m in the woods,” he says softly. “I see water. It’s close, but I can’t seem to reach it.”

“What are you doing there?” I ask, taking in his musky scent.

“I’m searching for something … waiting for something … but I don’t know what it is. I walk through the forest, but my footsteps don’t make a sound, they don’t leave a trail. A buck comes charging through the trees. I take out my best blade, but the animal runs right through me.” I watch his Adam’s apple depress in the firelight. “And when I wake, I have this horrible feeling, this ache in my gut, like I’ll never leave those woods. I’ll never reach the shore. I’ll be alone … forever.”

I want to reach out to touch him again. I want to tell him that I’m here, that he’s not alone, but what good would it do? No matter the circumstances that threw us together, he will always be a poacher. I will always be prey. Nothing will ever change that. As soon as I cross back over the fence, all of this will be nothing but a dream.

A great and terrible dream.





I wake to find that Ryker’s set up a fishing line across a corner of the tiny cabin, draping pelts over it to hide a small metal tub, filled with steaming hot water.

“I thought you might want a bath,” he says.

Pulling the chemise away from my damp skin, I tuck in my chin and take a whiff. He thought right.

As he tends to the hearth, I duck behind the pelts. There’s a small jar of tea tree oil and a teakwood comb waiting for me.

I peek through the pelts. It seems silly. He’s seen me naked a hundred times; he has a map to my skin, for God’s sake, but everything’s different now.

Slipping out of the chemise, I step into the tub. A low grumble of thunder rattles the tin beneath me.

“Anders was right about the storm,” I say.

Pulling the ribbon from my hair, I let out the longest sigh of my life. I feel bad for swatting his hand away when he tried to take it out when I first arrived. I’m not sure if it was tradition or the idea of magic that set me off, but it makes me realize how ingrained the county runs in me.

Sinking into the water, it’s so hot, I’m afraid I’ll scald my skin, but it feels too good to stop. I can’t imagine how many kettles he had to boil to fill this.

I’m rubbing the tea tree oil into my hair when I feel something brush against my leg. I’m about to jump out of the tub when I see it’s a flower petal. I take in a quick breath. Wild roses. In the county, bathing with flowers is a sin, a perversion, punishable by whip.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. He’s so attuned to me now. He probably hears the change in my breath.

“There are rose petals in the bath,” I say, trying to sound as calm as possible.

“It’s called a perfume bath. I’m told it’s good for your skin. I thought it might help with your scars, but I can take them out if you don—”

“No. Of course. That’s very kind,” I say, rolling my eyes at how stupid I sound—like I’m accepting the arm of a gentleman to escort me over a puddle that I could damn well get over myself.

Sinking back into the water, I try to avoid touching the petals, but I have to admit, it’s nice.

Another roar of thunder trembles beneath me, making me tense up. I remember the last time a huge storm came through. That didn’t end so well. Smoothing the rose water over the scar tissue on my shoulder, I try to think of something else. Anything else.

“Do you have a nickname?” I ask.

“What’s that?”

“Like, Ry or Ryker Striker or—”

“No.” He lets out a tiny laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh before. “Do you?”

I shrug. The pain in my shoulder seems to have dulled to the point that I hardly wince when I move it anymore. “Some of them call me Tierney the Terrible.”