Page 106 of Of Heather and Thistle
This was betrayal.
And shame.
Flynn’s brows drew together. “What did she do?”
Heather swallowed hard. “There was this guy—Sam. I never told her I liked him, but she knew. And instead of encouraging me, instead of just letting it be… she made a deal with him. She bribed him to ask me out. Promised she’d sleep with him if he pretended to like me for a night.”
Flynn’s grip tightened, his jaw ticking. “Shewhat?”
“She thought she was doing me a favor,” Heather said bitterly. “Said it would help me feel confident. But it wasn’t about me. It was about control. She always gets what she wants—no matter who it hurts. And I let her. I let her shape how I saw myself.”
Her voice cracked.
“After that, I couldn’t unsee it. The way she used people. The way she usedme.I realized I had to get out. I couldn’t stay in that life, around those same patterns. So… I ran. I came here. To Glenoran.”
Flynn’s thumb traced gently over the back of her hand. “Toescape?”
She nodded, brushing away a tear. “Yeah. I thought distance would fix it. That if I ran far enough, I’d finally feel free. But I didn’t leave the pain behind….
I brought it with me.
All the broken pieces. All the fear. I thought this place could be a fresh start, but…”
Her voice faltered. “Now I don’t even know what I want. I don’t know who I am without the pain.”
Flynn stepped closer, his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to know yet. And you don’t have to carry it alone. Whatever you decide—wherever you go—I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Heather looked up, breath trembling—something fragile and fierce blooming in her chest.
She didn’t want to run anymore.
Not from this.
Not from him.
Not anymore.
Chapter 30
Heather sat at the worn wooden table in the kitchen, Flynn’s hoodie draped over her shoulders, the sleeves swallowing her hands whole. The warmth of their moment still clung to the air, mixing with woodsmoke and something faintly sweet—tea, maybe. Or the lingering taste of Flynn on her lips.
She’d told him everything. About her mother. About Glenoran. About Ivy. About the tangled mess of grief and longing she’d carried since she was nine years old. And he’d listened—in his quiet, steady way. No empty reassurances. No fixing. Just being there.
As Flynn rinsed their mugs at the sink, she let her head rest against the back of the chair and exhaled. “You’re being suspiciously quiet, Duncan,”
“Aye. Because I’m thinkin’,” he said, setting the cups aside. He dried his hands on a rag and turned to face her, arms crossed over his chest. “Come with me for a second.”
Heather raised a brow. “Where exactly? Because last timeI followed you, things got a bit… involved.”
A slow smirk curved his lips. “Notthatinvolved… though keep talkin’ like that, and we might never leave this kitchen.”
A blush crept up her throat, but she rolled her eyes and stood. “Fine. Lead the way.”
Flynn took her hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and guided her out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and down the dimly lit hall. When he stopped in front of a door, her breath caught.
Her mother’s room.
Heather’s chest tightened. She hadn’t really stepped inside since arriving—it had felt too raw. Too real. Too empty. Flynn pushed open the door, stepping aside so she could see.
