Page 71 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
Chapter 31
Alice
The evening air is bitingly cold, tinged with winter, but Wyatt’s hand in mine makes me feel like I’m standing in front of a bonfire. Even though we’ve seen none of Them in the past half-hour’s search, my skin is still flushed hot from witnessing the Wild Hunt.
Okay, and probably something else, if I’m honest.
“I love having you here.”Those words from his mouth, spoken like he’d never said anything truer in his entire life. I take a big step up from the road and onto the old brick sidewalk, trying to shift my focus to the task at hand. But all I can think about is Wyatt Hayes. Adjusting the strap of my rifle, I glance over at him, admiring the line of his jaw in the lamplight.
“See something you like, Blythe?” he asks me in a drawl from the back of his throat.
“Maybe,” I reply with a noncommittal shrug. “Guess you’ll have to find out after we make sure there’s no silver-haired Fey on motorcycles lurking in the alleys.”
“They’re damn lucky They wanted Willa and not you,” Wyatt replies, arching his brow as he peers into a pocket gardenbetween the grocer and a sprawling bookstore that I haven’t gotten to check out yet.
His words register, and I pause, damp leaves circling my feet like hounds as a cold wind blows down from the hills. “Oh yeah?” I ask slyly, pressing myself into him.
He goes still, his eyes sliding away from the darkness of the park to meet mine. “Ah-ah,” he replies, wagging one finger at me. “You’re startin’ a dangerous game with that.”
I grin up at him, and any hope I had of being a responsible adult who makes sure the town is safe from monsters before thinking about other things is gone. “What would you have done?” I ask, pressing my free hand into his chest. His heart seems to beat into my palm, and my knees go weak. “If They tried to take me?”
A long, shuddering breath goes out of him as he turns to face me, sliding both arms around my waist. The moonlight and the illumination of the streetlamps cast half his face in a luminous glow that makes me wonder just how much Fey blood he has—because how could a regular human be this goddamn beautiful?
“I would’ve gutted every last one of Them,” Wyatt replies, resting his forehead against mine. His fingers slip under my sweater exactly where I need to be touched—where I’myearningto be touched after what I’ve just seen. I tell myself it’s only because I’ve just watched old folklore come to life and parade through the streets with its teeth bared, and not because of how much I’ve fallen for this man.
His mouth brushes my brow, then both sides of my jaw, hands sliding down to my jeans. “Would’ve hunted ’Em right to Faerie’s godsdamn door if I had to,” he murmurs, the words rough around the edges.
I grab the collar of his jacket with both hands and haul him down to me. He meets my kiss hungrily, pressing a husky groan against my lips. I let out a gasp and pull him closer, as close asI possibly can. I know he’s afraid. I know there’s things in his past—and mine—we haven’t yet discussed, but I don’t want to push him. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. It won’t change how I feel, anyway. I only want to know what he carries so I can help shoulder the weight.
Because I think Wyatt Hayes has been carrying around enough pain for at least ten people, and he does it without complaint. He can be the handsome-as-hell, flannel-wearing, kinda grumpy, Fey-fighting man of little words to everybody else in this town. But not with me.
With me, he can be whoever he wants, whenever he wants. Because it’s the core of Wyatt—his crackling warmth, his kindness that only fools mistake for weakness, his fierce protectiveness—that I think I might be falling in love with, not the rest of it. As I slide my hands under his shirt, fingers brushing the hard muscle of his stomach, I acknowledge that I’m also pretty into the rest of it, too.
He cups my face in his hands as he gently pulls away, looking down at me, his chest rising in a short, hard breath. “Let’s get that ice and s’mores stuff,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “Drop it off. Make our excuses. Then I’m going to take you home, Alice. My home.” He pauses, his mouth parted, and I guess something in my eyes tells him to keep going. “Yours, too, if you want it.”
“Okay,” I whisper. Heat uncoils between my legs, and something I don’t think I’ve ever felt before strains in my chest, like a flower blooming on the first day of spring, tender petals pushing against ice-cold snow. “I would like that very much.”
“Alright,” he says with a soft smile, taking my hand in his again. Then he leads me up a set of stone stairs and into an antique building with decorative details that make me think of a gingerbread house. A gilded sign on the front window reads “The Sweet Shoppe, Gifts, Sundries and Gourmet Foods.” Inside,there’s a second set of doors, much more modern than the exterior, my reflection in the glass surprising me.
Wyatt raps on the door in a specific pattern, and then a stout woman with short, dark hair and a kind, round face appears. She cracks the door open, narrowing her eyes at us.
“I heard everything on the radio,” she says. “But I’m gonna have to check, alright?”
Wyatt nods. “As you should, Mrs. Cheng.”
Mrs. Cheng steps back inside and flips a switch, filling the space with overhead lights. I blink in the sudden brightness as the woman reappears in the doorway. I can now see she’s dressed in a floral-patterned house dress, a long wool cardigan, and hot pink Wellingtons that go to her knees.
Unceremoniously, she flicks a lightly scented oil at us—Wanda’s faesbane, probably. When neither of us begins to scream or bleed or do whatever the Fey would, she nods grimly and reaches into the pocket of her cardigan, retrieving two long iron nails. Without a word, Wyatt holds out his hand, gesturing for me to do the same. She drops one nail into his hand, then mine, and watches us closely.
“Oh, good,” Mrs. Cheng says a few moments later. “That would’ve been awkward. Come on in. I heard there’s a party at Lucky’s.” She pushes open one of the doors, revealing a glimpse into a lovely shop with towering shelves and large crates of every variety of snack known to man.
“Yes, ma’am,” Wyatt replies. “Getting stuff for s’mores.”
“And ice,” I say.
“Ice is out back,” Mrs. Cheng tells me, turning to walk back into the store, the wide floorboards creaking pleasantly with her steps.
“I’ll go grab the ice,” Wyatt tells me, raising our still-entwined hands to his lips, brushing my knuckles with a kiss.
