Saffron opened her clutch and took out a small dried flower. It was a pale blue Alpine Star. The petals were thin and faded with age. She rolled the stem between her fingers. Her hazel eyes never left Vivienne.
This woman had taken her child. This woman had killed her grandmother and burned her home.
Look at me, Vivienne, Saffron thought. Her jaw was so tight that her cheekbones showed. You think you own this city. You think the dead stay buried.
Four years ago, Saffron Thorne did not exist. Five years ago, there was only Lyra Vance, a girl who thought the world ended where the mountain woods did.
Five Years Earlier - Pine Crest.
The rain in Pine Crest never fell softly. It came down hard and sideways. It rattled the tin roof of the nursery greenhouse.
Lyra Vance stood at the wooden potting bench. Her hands were covered in wet soil. She was cutting dead leaves off a tray of winter ferns. The air smelled of damp earth, cold rain, and cedar.
Outside, something hit the wooden fence by the road. It made a heavy thud.
Lyra stopped. Her shears hovered over a pot of lavender. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve and left a smear of clay on her skin. Then she listened.
She heard a low groan under the rain. It sounded wet and rough.
She threw a wool shawl over her shoulders and took an iron lantern from the hook by the door and stepped into the muddy driveway. The wind whipped her dark curls across her face and cold rain stung her eyes.
Near the broken gate of the lavender bed, a man lay on his side in the mud.
He was broad-shouldered. His dark wool coat was soaked with rain and blood. His left arm was wrapped around his stomach. His fingers dug into his side.
Lyra knelt in the wet grass and put the lantern on a flat stone.
"Mister? Can you hear me?"
The man groaned. His head rolled back into the dirt. His face was white as chalk. A deep cut ran along his jaw. Even covered in blood and rain, his face was striking. He had a sharp jaw and long dark lashes.
Lyra pushed his coat open.
His white undershirt was soaked red. The white cotton undershirt beneath was drenched in dark, sticky crimson. A long, jagged cut ran along his right side, just below his rib cage, oozing fresh blood with every shallow breath he dragged into his lungs.
"Nana!" Lyra screamed over the wind. She pressed both hands hard against the wound. It was hot and slick. "Nana, bring hot water! There's a man bleeding in the garden!"
The man's eyes snapped open. They were storm-gray and wild. They were full of fear. His hand shot out of the mud and clamped around her wrist like iron.
"Don't," he rasped. His voice sounded like stones grinding together. "No police."
"You're bleeding to death," Lyra said. Her wrist ached under his grip.
"No police," he said again. His fingers tightened until her skin turned white. Then his eyes rolled back. His hand fell away, and he went limp in the mud.
Lyra did not wait. She grabbed him under the arms. Her boots slid in the wet clay. She dragged the heavy stranger toward the warm yellow light of the porch.
She did not know his name was Dominic Sterling. She did not know his own family had sent hitmen after him. She only knew he was bleeding on her grandmother's flowers.
She had no way of knowing that saving him would cost her everything.
The kitchen smelled of damp wood, sage, and blood.
The storm had knocked out the power. A single kerosene lamp threw long, shaky shadows across the low ceiling. Rain pushed through the gap under the back door and left a wet line on the floor.
Lyra and Nana lifted the stranger onto the long kitchen table. He was heavy. Lyra's arms shook by the time they were done. His wool coat lay on the floor in a heap. It was soaking in a puddle of pink water.
Nana filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. Her apron still had flour on it. Her hands were steady, but her eyes were wide when she looked at his torn shirt.
"Who is he, Lyra?" she asked in a low voice.
"I don't know." Lyra wiped her bloody hands on a dish towel. "He was in the mud by the lavender. He said no police."
"No police usually means trouble," Nana said. She looked at his hands. "And those aren't a farmer's hands, child."
Lyra looked. His fingers were long, and his nails were clean. A heavy silver ring sat on his right forefinger. Even unconscious, his face looked hard. His jaw was sharp as stone.
She picked up the garden shears and cut his undershirt open down the middle.
The wound was a long, deep slash across his right side, low on his ribs, just above the hip. It was about five inches long. Blood ran down his side and soaked the waistband of his trousers. The skin around the cut was red and swollen, and it was full of grit from the driveway.
"It's a knife cut," Nana said. She pressed gently on his stomach. It felt soft under her fingers. She checked his lips. There was no blood in his mouth. "It went across, not in. That's good. If it had gone deep into his belly, he'd be dead by now."
"Should we take him to the clinic?" Lyra whispered. She already knew the answer. The nearest one was an hour down the mountain. The road had flooded two hours ago.
"Not tonight," Nana said. "Clean it well. If dirt stays in there, a fever will take him by morning."
Nana dropped a curved needle into the boiling pot. She added a spool of black silk thread.
Lyra dipped a rag in warm water, wrung it out, and pressed it to the cut.
The man's whole body went stiff. His gray eyes flew open. He gasped. Before Lyra could move, his right hand shot out and closed around her throat.
"Let... go," Lyra choked. She grabbed at his wrist.
"Where..." His voice was dry and rough. His eyes jumped around the room. He saw the dried herbs hanging from the beams. He saw the iron stove. He saw the old woman by the table.
"Pine Crest," Lyra forced out. Her boots scraped the floor. "You're safe. Let go of my throat."
He stared at her. His eyes moved over her dark curls, the dirt on her forehead, and her wide hazel eyes. She was scared and angry at the same time.
Slowly, his fingers loosened. His arm dropped onto the table.
"Sorry," he said. His chest heaved. Sweat ran down his forehead. "Instinct."
"Bad instinct." Lyra rubbed her neck. "I'm trying to save your life. Grab me again and I'll leave you outside."
The corner of his mouth moved. It was almost a smile, and it was gone fast. "Fair."
Nana lifted the needle out of the pot with a spoon and let it cool. Then she held it out to Lyra.
"You do it," she said. "My eyes are too old for small stitches. If he fights, hold him down."
"I've never stitched a person," Lyra said.
"You've grafted rose stems for ten years. It's the same work." Nana's voice was calm. "Go slow."
"I won't fight," the man whispered. He shut his eyes. "Just finish it."
Lyra poured a little boiled water over the wound to rinse it. She picked the grit out with clean tweezers. Then she took a breath and pushed the needle through his skin.
He didn't scream. His jaw locked. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His knuckles went white on the edge of the table. He made no sound at all.
Lyra worked slowly at first. Her hands shook. Then they settled. She pulled each stitch tight and closed the cut one stitch at a time. The bleeding slowed. Then it stopped.
When she tied the last knot, the rain had softened to a steady drizzle on the glass.
The man's breathing grew deep and slow. He had passed out.
Lyra stepped back and wiped her forehead on her arm. Her hands were still shaking. She felt in his wet coat pocket for a wallet or an ID. She wanted a name.
She found none. There was no license and no phone.
She found a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills with a rubber band around it. She found a heavy brass key with a number stamped on it.
"Nothing," she said quietly. She put the money on the counter. She did not take a single bill.
Nana pulled a dry blanket up over the man's chest. "Nobody walks around with that much cash and a wound like that for honest reasons," she said. "At sunrise, we give him dry clothes and send him down the mountain."
Lyra looked at his sleeping face. In the lamplight, the hard lines of his jaw looked softer.
"He needs a few days, Nana. He can barely stand."
"Trouble doesn't wait for a man to stand, child." Nana touched her shoulder. "I had a nephew who went down the mountain. He came back with new shoes and a quiet voice. Men like that bring fire wherever they go."
Lyra looked up. "You never talk about him."
"No," Nana said. "I don't."
/1/132977/coverbig.jpg?v=2d08bdc4cf5713bd4e791ad9b841a71b)
View More Comments on App
