Chapter 2
Elara opened her eyes to exposed cedar beams.
She sat up quickly, a thick wool blanket sliding down her chest.
The panic hit her immediately. She wasn't in her wedding dress.
She was wearing an oversized flannel shirt that smelled faintly of pine resin and laundry detergent.
"Where's my dress?" she asked, her voice urgent.
"In the back bay," a low voice rumbled from the shadows.
The man stepped into the light.
Darien Mercer.
The town called him dangerous. And he never corrected the rumors.
He had a brutal jaw, a jagged scar across his left eyebrow, and an intense, haunted stare.
Elara looked toward the window. Her bridal gown hung from a heavy steel chain hoist.
The mud had been brushed from the hem.
Elara swallowed the lump, gripping the edges of the blanket.
Her phone was dead on the desk, plugged into a black charger.
The clock on the wall read 6:14 AM.
"How long was I sleeping?"
"Six hours."
Darien walked over. He set the steaming mug on the edge of the table near her.
His left hand disappeared into his pocket the moment he noticed her looking.
"Thank you."
She took a careful sip before looking up at him.
"I'm Elara."
"I know."
She frowned.
"You know my name?"
"Darien Mercer."
He nodded toward the small television mounted above the workbench.
"You've been on every local news station since sunrise."
Darien reached over and turned up the volume.
The anchor's voice filled the garage.
"'Local business owner Elara Veyra allegedly suffered a psychotic episode during her wedding reception...'"
Elara's fingers tightened around the mug.
"What?"
"The Voss family released a statement," Darien said. "They're saying you assaulted your fiancé and your best friend."
A bitter, breathless laugh escaped Elara’s lips.
Her mother’s sapphire ring was tucked into the flannel pocket.
"There's more," Darien continued. "The county is ready to shut down the whole street today."
"My shop," Elara said, the coffee forgotten as she stood up.
"Someone is clearing the path, Elara. Your shop is part of it."
"Seren Voss," Elara muttered. "She wants the land. And my stepfather is giving it to her."
She looked at Darien, her eyes clearing, her posture rigid.
Darien turned his head.
"I caught you last night because you fainted in my yard," Darien said coldly. "But I don't get involved in your family wars."
Elara didn't argue. She didn't plead.
She found a pair of old, heavy work boots by the door, and slipped her bare feet into them.
"Nobody's coming to save me. I know that now." Elara said, her voice quiet.
Darien watched her. His face remained an unreadable mask.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy ring of truck keys, and tossed them toward her.
Elara missed. The keys hit the floor with a loud clatter between them.
She bent down to reach for them, but Darien was already moving.
For a single second, they were close—close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him.
He didn't hand them to her.
He stood up, the keys clenched in his fist.
"I'll drop you at the curb," he muttered, turning his back to open the door. "That's it."