Page 12 of Harvest His Heart
“Like cooking for me. It’s been a way to feel human again … after the military. A living, breathing, daily meditation. My Zen.” My voice softens over the last words, eyes lingering on hers longer than they should.
I raise my hand, palm her cheek, and brush a breadcrumb from her lip. My thumb grazes over her bottom lip, soft yet insistent. Her eyes drop to my mouth?—
Buzz. Buzz.
Lacey nearly jumps out of her chair, gasping.
“Shit,” I mutter, heart racing.
She heads for the couch, digging through her purse and eyeing her phone. The cold glow of the screen illuminates her face, eyes round, lips pressed thin, skin sheet pale. Her chin trembles.
“What’s wrong, Lacey?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.” But her words fall flat. A lie as her walls shoot sky-high again.
I stand, striding toward her. She stuffs her phone back in her purse, her face suddenly rigid. In cool tones, she excuses, “Dinner’s been amazing, but we need to wrap this up. I have to get back to my work. I have notes to take and so much to do.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I urge.
Lacey forces a smile, though dark storm clouds edge over her face. “It’s nothing… Thank you for everything tonight. You don’t know how much this meant to me.” She bites her bottom lip, face unreadable.
The room feels colder already. Whatever ghost just texted her came right through my door.
Chapter
Five
LACEY
Morning sunlight slants through the kitchen window, glinting off a bowl of shredded zucchini. Frankenzucchini, I think. The name makes me smile despite the heaviness from last night.
My hand trembles over the phone. The screen crawls with yesterday’s messages, a swarm of stinging hornets I can’t swat away.
8:41 AM
You fucking whore
9:23 AM
Are you ignoring me?
10:58 AM
???
6:32 PM
There will be hell to pay for this
I silenced every alert months ago—one small trick to keep my sanity from shattering. Wanted to block his number, too. But authorities warned me against it. Told me to keep collectingevidence. More like collecting hate … and fear. Attached to the last message is a picture of the welcome sign to Forest Grove.
My throat knots. Ice floods my chest. Coming here was a mistake.
My finger hovers over the text thread. I want to tell him to fuck off. That he can’t bully me anymore. Remind him of the restraining order. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my current situation, though, it’s that there is no rescue or escape. Only me againsthim… a showdown brewing.
Frost threads down my spine. My heart pounds. But there’s a wariness to my reaction, a silent exhaustion that comes from more than a year of riding waves of adrenaline. It’s either him or me. My life or his. I can’t keep running. I can’t keep hiding. I can’t put my writing career and future on hold indefinitely.
What can I do, though?
