Hemlock Veils (24 page)

Before she could engage the idea, a firm, warm grasp surrounded her wrist and she jerked, jumping at the sight of Mr. Clayton so close to her. She backed up, her heart speeding, and tried freeing her wrist; but he held on, his eyes steady on hers, and shook his head. A warning. It was then she remembered he wasn’t the enemy. He had saved her from the enemy, because she’d been too weak to save herself.

A sharp pain radiated from her thumb and she looked down to find her fingers clasped so tightly around the glass that it had drawn blood. Mr. Clayton’s eyes shifted to it before fixing firmly back on hers. Silently, he held out his other hand, demanding the weapon.

Reluctantly, she dropped it into his hand. An exhalation escaped her, releasing all the energy adrenaline had stolen from her body, and her knees nearly buckled. Shame filled her to the tips of her ears, and she attempted to make her breaths less animalistic as she hesitantly met Mr. Clayton’s eyes.

But they didn’t speak judgment, or even pity. His expression was unreadable and set in stone, but his eyes smoldered in the way they did every once in a while, when it seemed an invisible guard had been dropped. Only now, they radiated with some internal glow, coming from the inside out and making his irises appear more like melting caramel. Somehow, this man who lived a life of privilege and who demanded strict obedience understood the monster inside her. Somehow, condemnation was absent from his stare.

He released her wrist, probably when he saw the forfeit in her eyes. As though he fought his own battle inside, his brow creased. She braced herself against the car, a tingling sensation beginning to work itself into her limbs, and she ignored the pain in her back and thumb as she closed her jacket over herself.

She passed him a silent nod, since her tongue couldn’t conjure words, and he nodded in return. He began to leave, but paused. “Ms. Ashton, I’ll be over to repair your pipe after I return from Portland early this evening.” He seemed to hesitate, as though he wanted to say something else, but then turned away.

She had no response as she watched him leave, punch a code into his lavish gate, and then disappear within it. When he was out of sight, she released a deep sigh and sank into her hands, leaning against her now dented car before sinking to the ground. Though she didn’t cry, her chest shook. Regardless of why Mr. Clayton had come to her rescue, and regardless of her shame, she was indebted to him, not just for saving her life but for preventing her from acting on the darkest impulse she’d ever had. She owed Mr. Clayton everything.

She forced her limbs steady and picked herself up, afterward picking up her bag and keys. Her umbrella seemed too far away, but she picked that up too, even though she now found it useless. She shivered at the rivers flowing down her hair and into her clothing, and winced at the pain in her spine that bit from deep within when she bent over.

No matter her pain, however, Brian’s was probably ten times worse, judging from the way the entire car had rocked when he’d hit it, one whole side nearly lifting from the ground. And for the first time that morning, satisfaction filled her being.

She entered her car and closed the door, leaving her in silence so still her ears rang, and as she started the engine, she attempted to analyze her astonishing rescue. Mr. Clayton had appeared from nowhere.
Where
had he come from? If he’d come from his gate, she and Brian would have heard or seen it. Besides, the gate had been closed just now when Mr. Clayton had approached it. Wherever he’d come from, he hadn’t taken the time to fully dress, so he wouldn’t have taken time to close the gate. That meant he hadn’t come from his house. And aside from the forest, there was nowhere else…

Her thoughts stopped short and she lifted her head, remembering every exchange between her and Mr. Clayton from the moment they’d met. The memories took her breath away as they played on repeat, replacing the sight of steering wheel and drowning windshield. His brown eyes, the way he didn’t want her here, the way her fearlessness enraged him. His disappearance at night. And he knew about her pipes, like he’d been listening to her and Brian’s conversation just before Brian had attacked her.

Oxygen came with difficulty.

Of course, he’d been listening, right from the Beast’s forest.
His
forest.
 

Chapter 15

Plenty of daylight remained when Henry and Arne returned to Hemlock Veils. Water still covered the town, even with the sun’s cameo appearance, and the Maybach’s tires splashed through puddles. They passed Jean’s, with its windows dark and the sign flipped to
Closed
. He tried picturing Elizabeth’s first day of business. Had Brian been stupid enough to show up? With everything in him, Henry hoped he was smarter than that. Tension shot though his muscles at the thought of Brian and the way he’d displayed his true colors. Eustace used to say, years ago, that you could see the true character of a man through his drink. And Brian showed his that morning, ugly and despicable. It’d left Henry more enraged than he’d been in years, all Brian’s incessant pushing and touching.

Worse, he’d felt more protective of Elizabeth than he’d ever felt of anyone, or anything. Instead of wondering why, he’d simmered in rage, waiting for Brian to finally leave Elizabeth alone, like she’d insisted. But he hadn’t. And the sun had risen at just the right time, giving him only long enough to find his clothes and half-dress himself.

He’d wanted to do more than hit him. He wanted to do what he was sure Elizabeth had been contemplating. God knows Brian deserved worse. But Henry still considered himself, in most respects and at least in this form, a reputable human being.

He exhaled slowly, laying his head back. His mind replayed Elizabeth cowering then nearly losing it. In the beginning, all he’d wanted was to see her afraid, just to prove she was like the rest. A horrifying beast, capable of ripping her to shreds, and she wanted to befriend it. Then a coward of a man takes advantage, and her eyes widened with a fear he had begun to think she wasn’t capable of. And now the image of fear in her eyes haunted him.

It haunted him so much he almost wanted to take back their deal. She accepted him in his monstrous form. It was something he would never understand, yet he found himself yearning for that acceptance. Perhaps, if he could persuade her to go outside, he could determine
why
she understood him, why she wasn’t afraid, and even why he felt such an intense connection when meeting her eyes.

He hid that connection during the day, or tried to. It was becoming more difficult to be his false self with her, the self he’d taught himself to be: cold, distant, and pretentious. But letting his guard fall wasn’t an option, because of all the people he wanted to protect, Elizabeth topped the list. Recently, she was the only one on it.

This morning, when he’d interfered with Brian’s plan, Henry worried he may have dropped his guard too low to rebuild, but he’d already seemed to build it again when walking by Jean’s on the way to the diner, an hour later than normal. Through the glass door and windows, it appeared that Regina was the only customer. Elizabeth had been resting her elbows on the counter, smiling as they chatted over steaming coffee, and though she wore a happy face, the disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable. He’d wanted to come in, not just because he’d been craving her coffee, but because he’d been craving the sight of her, and in that specific moment, the sight of her smile. It announced she was whole, announced that Brian had lost.

Such a realization had reaffirmed his will to avoid her, however, and when she straightened, noticing him through the window, he’d simply kept walking.

When he entered the diner, all eyes fell upon him. It was annoying to the point of nausea, the way every man moved according to Henry’s will. It was supposed to be this way, the way he’d intended. But he was growing exhausted by it all. At least he no longer had to worry about Regina being one of them, since she’d already been converted to Team Elizabeth.

Upon realizing this, he had sighed and said, “Go,” and a few of them stood, while the rest appeared confused. “Ms. Ashton deserves your business, so go. I know you all want to
.
” Eustace looked at his cup of coffee with a sudden disgust, and he was the first to rise. He walked to the door with nothing but a respectful nod in Henry’s direction, and the rest followed. The only ones who stayed were Nicole and Brian. Brian eyed him warily, his split lip a most pleasing sight, and Nicole ran her fingers through his hair like he was some baby. Would she be so loving if she knew how he earned the wounds she was babying, or would Nicole only blame Elizabeth?

After a long look, Brian rose, but Henry said, “Not you.” Brian glared. Perhaps he was getting a backbone of his own as well.

“I was drunk, Mr. Clayton. I…it wasn’t me.”

Henry stepped closer. “On the contrary, Mr. Dane. I think it showed us exactly who you are.”

“What’s he talking about, Brian?” Nicole asked, eyeing the slice on his lip. “I thought this happened in Portland.”

Brian studied Henry a few seconds longer, then looked down. “Nothing, Nicki. I think I need to go home and sleep.” He left without a goodbye, leaving Henry and Nicole alone. It was awkward, but Henry reminded himself it was worth it, better than the alternative.

Now, as Arne pushed the button on the middle console and the gate opened ahead—the gate that would always bear the initials of his father—he mentally prepared himself to face Elizabeth. More importantly, facing her at the cottage. He wouldn’t have offered his help, had Brian been decent enough not to ask for sexual favors in exchange. Really, Henry had no choice.

They drove around the house and entered the garage, and as it closed behind them, leaving him and Arne in darkness, Arne said, “It’s just a pipe, Henry. Not a death sentence.”

Henry didn’t respond as he left the car, not waiting for Arne to let him out. Not that he ever did when it was just the two of them. Upstairs, in his loft of a bedroom—with a bed he hardly ever used—he changed into a white t-shirt and jeans. He found his old set of tools—the same he and his mother used when living in that very cottage—and added the repair sleeve he’d bought in Portland to the tool belt.

When he knocked on her door a few minutes later, he straightened his shoulders, attempting to make himself taller, more threatening. She was Ms. Ashton. Not Elizabeth, as he’d only recently begun to think of her.

She didn’t answer, and the part of him that allowed her to fuel his annoyance sparked. He ran a hand over his face, still not used to the whiskers he hadn’t shaved in three days. Here he was, offering his help, and she wasn’t even here. Her car sat on the street but that didn’t say much, given it was Elizabeth, and she liked to walk everywhere in town.

Then a thought struck him: she was Elizabeth, and it
was
sunny. He walked around the house, to the place he’d found her and Arne a few days before, the same place he used to find his mother whenever the sun had been shining.

Crouched on the porch, Elizabeth tinkered with a potted plant: a small, young azalea, only one pink flower in bloom. While one of her hands poked at the soil, the other—whose thumb wore a bandage—reached to her lower back and rubbed. From this angle, only part of her cringe was visible, but it was enough to fire up the same trigger from that morning, the one that felt like an explosion of heat had blown inside him. It was bad enough she already had to recover from the sore ribs he’d given her only days before, but this was unforgivable. And it also made him no better than Brian.

Her hair spiraled from her head in loose curls, some strands pinned away from her face. She wore a large sweater with sleeves pushed to her elbows, and surprisingly, he found her more attractive this way than he had in their meeting at the bakery, when she and her business attire were soaked through. Both the breeze and sun played with her hair, making him exhale a sigh—silently, since he wanted another moment to admire her before he had to play the enemy.

She straightened then, her back to him. It happened every time she sensed him watching at night, and even now he wondered how she knew he was there. She stood, not bothering to wipe her soil-stained fingers, and looked around her, her mannerisms hopeful as she glanced up to the suddenly darkening sky. But it was just deceiving cloud cover, and when she saw him she slumped. Was she hoping to see someone else? Perhaps the other form of himself?

“Mr. Clayton, you…startled me,” she excused with instantly pink cheeks, closing her sweater. He wished she hadn’t, since the shirt beneath was snug, flattering, and particularly low-cut. She also wore the same silver locket around her neck she always wore. The chain was long, allowing the oval-shaped pendant to rest low on the bare skin of her chest. He wondered what pictures it stored.

“They won’t survive in there,” he said, stepping closer.

Her brows pulled together.

“The azaleas.” Her eyes found the pot, basking in the sun. “That pot won’t allow the soil to drain well, and the sun will fry it. You’d have better luck over here,”—he pointed to the earthy ground below him, just beside the deck, where the overhang would provide sufficient shade all day long—“since the soil here is well drained. Azaleas thrive in the shade.”

She stared at him as though he was a stranger, and he reprimanded himself for saying too much.
In and out
, he had told himself before he came. Then she said, “I…didn’t know you were an expert on flowers.”

“Just rhododendrons.”

A trace of a smile. “I always pictured Arne doing the gardening.”

“We both do it.” He wanted to smile back, but instead looked away and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t have much time, so—”

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

As he climbed the steps, he said, somewhat shamefully, “Ms. Ashton, about your car…”

She turned to him, raising a hand. “No, please. It’s fine, Mr. Clayton.”

“It’s not fine. I’ll pay for the repairs.” He scratched his head. “Not by Brian, of course, but somewhere in Government Camp maybe.”