Page 342 of Hunters and Prey

“Where were you?” a stern male voice asked.

Ah, crap. “Hey, Dad, you’re up.”

“Stating the obvious—a sure sign of guilt,” he said dryly. He glared at me from beneath bushy brows from his spot by the kitchen sink. Despite the gray hair and beard and the whole I-should-be-old air, my dad was tall, straight-backed, and pretty scary when he was pissed.

Like now.

“I went for a drink with Helgi. It was fine.” Maybe a smile would help, but my busted lip had me wincing instead.

He studied me and tightened his dressing gown belt. “Your broken face says otherwise.”

Licking my split lip, I reached up to gingerly touch my swollen eye. “This? Pah. This is nothing. You should see the other guys.”

“Guys?”

Damn the ale. Time to pull my foot from my big mouth. “Look, Dad. I’m fine, okay? I can take care of myself. I’m not a child.”

He placed the lamp on the table. “Of course you can, and of course you’re not.” And here came the sarcasm. “That’s why you go out and get into a fight. That’s why you sneak off like a criminal in the middle of the night.” He stared at me levelly. “We have a farm to run.” His tone grew soft and serious. “A business that puts food on the table. How can you work the land if you’re injured?”

I pressed my lips together, ignoring the jab of pain.

He threw up his hands in despair. “Haven’t I taught you better? Haven’t I taught you how important it is to have a roof overhead?”

He was understandably upset. He didn’t know the truth, didn’t know how little we made from the business. “Yes, you have. I’m sorry.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You need to promise this won’t happen again. The farm must come first. It is our bread and butter. Promise me.”

Oh, fuck. There was no way I could do that.

“Anya!” he snapped.

My temper, always balancing on a razor’s edge, flared, but I tamped down on it. “I can’t make that promise.”

He sat back and blinked at me in surprise. “Why?”

I ran a hand over my face. It looked like it was going to be a night of revelations. “The farm is no longer viable, okay? This farm is dead. It’s been dead for years, and the food on the table you’re talking about comes from me.”

He stared at me, wide-eyed. “What ... What do you mean?”

Damn the lip-loosening effects of shitty ale and a good rumble. The nearest chair beckoned, and I was suddenly bone-weary.

Lowering my body onto the creaking wood, I locked eyes with my dad. “I lied to you about how much we were bringing in on the produce. Competition is fierce, and to be honest, the cow stopped giving milk months ago, and the hens rarely lay any longer. Our quality is ... questionable.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand ...”

Of course he didn’t. The farm had been his dream, but he had no clue how to run it, not really. He spent his days digging the fields, feeding the animals, and tending his herb garden, and I’d let him, because, well, he’d saved me, and I owed him.

“Anya?”

He was looking at me expectantly, waiting for the truth. Here goes. “As well as helping out in Helgi’s workshop, I’ve been running jobs.”

He frowned. “Jobs? What kind of jobs.”

“The odd retrieval and a few beatdowns, that kind of thing. We’re doing good. The money is good.”

His lips tightened. “Helgi and you?”

“Yes.”

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