Chapter 2

WREN

People said Dane looked ugly and scary. I didn't see it.

Sure, he was huge, a foot taller than me, with wide shoulders and hands that looked like they could dig through solid stone.

He moved quiet as a cat for someone his size, so it could happen that you turned around and suddenly he was right behind you.

Even guys who'd worked for him for years still jumped sometimes.

And then there were the scars — a spidery web running down the side of his face, through his left eyebrow, to the corner of his mouth, down his neck and onto his forearm.

I didn't know what had happened to him, and I didn't dare ask.

It just told me he'd been in serious pain once. Why would that be scary in itself?

You had to know him to catch when he was smiling, since one side of his face didn't move the same as the other.

But there was a dimple, and his eyes — bright blue, always kind — smiled even when his mouth didn't.

His voice was low and rumbly, the kind that made you feel steadier just hearing it.

To me, Dane wasn't ugly at all.

I'd met plenty of actually ugly people in my life, the kind whose cruelty showed on their faces.

Dane looked nothing like them.

His pub was the only place in Larkspur Hollow where I felt safe.

A few Primes had tried something with me back in November — drunk, thinking a couple of beers meant I owed them.

They hadn't liked hearing no.

Dane had just looked at them, hadn't even raised his voice, and they'd scurried off like roaches.

Then he'd asked if I was okay and given me dinner for free.

When I started feeling off and Milo told me it was heat coming, I panicked.

Nineteen was early — most Rares didn't present until twenty or twenty-two.

It was freezing out, and without really deciding to, I'd ended up at Dane's. My feet just brought me there.

I felt ashamed now, remembering what I'd asked him to do. I hadn't planned it.

I'd just wanted somewhere warm, and then he'd smelled me, and I'd looked up at him and thought — I didn't even know what I'd thought.

He was the only Prime in this town who'd ever been kind to me without wanting something back.

Maybe some part of me figured it wouldn't be so bad if it were him.

Of course he hadn't wanted me.

I was homeless, dirty, skinny, and he was a grown man with a business and — I didn't actually know how old, somewhere between thirty and fifty, hardly any gray in his dark hair.

Sipping the last of the coffee he'd bought me, I sat on the bed and looked over what he'd left.

The toys were mostly just strange — a couple of dildos, one long and one thick, and one unnervingly lifelike shaft with a knot that inflated at the press of a remote button.

I turned it on by accident and nearly dropped it when the head started vibrating and the base swelled.

I found the off switch fast.

I wasn't lying when I told Dane I was a virgin.

I'd been on the streets since fourteen, but Milo had kept me close, and I hadn't done anything for money with my body until after I turned eighteen — and even then, she'd told me I never had to.

I'd gotten grabbed twice and gotten away both times, and after the second I'd stopped hustling for good.

Looking at the toys scattered on the bed now, I felt about as aroused as if I were staring down a drain.

I put everything back in the bag and shoved it under the bed. Now what?

I couldn't even go down to the pub — I already smelled like heat, apparently.

In the kitchen, I found dirty glasses on the counter and dishes in the sink.

Dane had been so nice, letting me stay.

It was the least I could do to help out while he was downstairs.

* * *

By the time Dane came up at one with lunch, I'd finished the dishes, wiped down the counters, and mopped the floor.

"What are you doing?" He looked almost annoyed.

"Sorry — I wanted to help out. One thing led to another."

"You don't have to do that, Wren."

"I was bored anyway."

The dimple showed. He was pleased, whatever he said. "I brought chicken soup. You're not opposed to chicken?"

I shook my head — like I ever had the luxury of opinions about food — and the smell alone made my mouth water.

I put the mop away and joined him at the table.

"Sorry I didn't wait, I need to get back down," he said, already eating.

The soup was the best thing I'd had in longer than I could remember.

When I looked up from the empty bowl, he was watching me, that shallow dimple giving him away.

"Thank you. It's really good."

"There's more downstairs. I'll have Tara freeze some for later." A beat. "She doesn't know you're here, by the way."

"I haven't told any of my staff. Didn't know if it'd bother you."

It didn't — it was a relief, actually, especially after the way she'd looked at me the night before, like I was about to rob the place.

"Thanks," I mumbled. Then, because it had been sitting in my chest all morning: "I'm sorry, Dane."

"What for?"

"I don't know why I came here. Or — I do know. Because you've been nice to me."

"I didn't mean to..." Force you into this. "I'm sorry."

"Wren, it's not your fault you're in this situation. I'll help you. Don't worry."

Not my fault. Hearing him say it landed strange.

I'd always figured everything was — running from the foster home at fourteen, trying to hustle even when Milo said I didn't have to, showing up on his doorstep smelling like heat.

My own decisions, my own fault. Half this town would agree.

"Wren?"

"Sorry. I'm fine. Just got distracted."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't. You said it wasn't my fault. I've never really thought of it that way."

He reached across the table like he might touch my hand, then pulled back.

"You were a kid when you ended up on the street."

"This town will drop a fortune at the tavern on the ridge without blinking, but it can't keep a decent shelter running for people who actually need one."

"How is any of that on you?"

I didn't have an answer, so I bit into the bread instead.

"How do others manage the heat?" he asked.

"My friend Milo's good at finding regulars."

"When hers came, she told a couple of the ones she liked best, and one of them took her in."

"She said it was fine."

"But you don't—?" He stopped himself, blew out a breath. "You don't have to tell me."

"I used to. A couple times, after I turned eighteen. Never went anywhere I couldn't walk out of."

"Some guys were decent — bought food, wanted to talk, lonely more than anything."

"Some got rough, and I could never tell which ahead of time. I'm not brave like Milo."

"I don't want to do it anymore."

"I'm sorry you ever felt like you had to."

"It's fine." I was tearing the bread into pieces without meaning to. I swept the crumbs into the empty bowl.

"Are you scared of me, Wren?" His voice had gone careful.

I looked at him properly — the scars, the crooked mouth, that permanent worried line between his brows — and landed, like always, on his eyes.

Blue, and warm despite everything else about him that was supposed to be frightening. I'd never been scared of Dane.

Not even the first time I'd seen him outside the pub, painting the specials board, the brush looking like a toy in his enormous hand.

"No. Not at all."

He smiled at that, and something warm unspooled low in my stomach. I smiled back.

"You should rest," he said, taking the dishes to the sink himself before I could argue. "You've done enough today."

He was right — exhaustion hit me the second he said it, heavy and sudden for the middle of the afternoon.

He headed back down to the pub, and I crawled under the covers in the guest room, my whole body sore like I'd been running all day.

My mind drifted to him — downstairs right now, back again tonight — and the thought of him close by was the last thing I remember before sleep pulled me under.

It didn't last.