Page 19 of If You Were Mine
Death was inevitable, and it didn’t judge you. It sliced through you and left nothing but agony in its wake. There was no numbness, there couldn’t be, not for the living.
“Whenever you decide to stop being the grumpy Cage, let me know. Because I’m pretty sure Hudson already has the mountain man, grumpy asshole Cage locked in. I don’t think we need a second one.”
“Watch your tone and watch your language, Harper. That’s not like you.”
“You don’t know me, Dorian. You never did.”
With that, Lucky and I moved past him, and ignoring the pain in my lungs, I jogged back to the bakery.
I ignored the worrying looks from others as they milled about Main Street, and as I bumbled up the stairs and back to my apartment, I locked the door behind me, only then realizing that I wasn’t shaking from exertion, but from the sobs racking my body.
Dorian Cage was back.
The one man I had ever cared for.
But the Dorian Cage I had just seen wasn’t the man that I knew.
But that only made sense. Because I couldn’t recognize the Harper that I saw in the mirror as it was.
Two peas in a pod. Joshua would be so proud.
Lucky slid his body against mine as I sat on the floor, held my dog, and let the sobs come.
But no amount of crying would bring Joshua back. And no amount of crying would help me figure out what the hell to do about Dorian, let alone myself.
Chapter Four
DORIAN
The thud of my axe hitting wood echoed in my ears and felt good. Of course, I was going to regret this later. Hell, I was already regretting it. I was a damn idiot, but then again, this was something I knew. Me being an idiot wasn’t anything outrageously new or fantastic.
After all, hello, I woke up being an idiot, went to sleep being an idiot, and would remain one until the end of my days.
Another whack, as I split a log and tried not to groan. I rolled my shoulders back, the axe nearly falling out of my hand. I set it so it rested against the larger base log, before I tossed the split logs of the wood onto the pile.
The old Ackerson place, as it had been named years before I was born, wasn’t exactly falling down around itself, but close. It was larger than a cabin but not a huge estate like my father would have preferred when we’d been growing up. I didn’t even know why we still called it the old Ackerson place considering a Cage had owned it for nearly two decades. Only he’d done it in secret.
It would take months of backbreaking labor for me to get it into shape to sell, but that’s what happens when you neglected a place for so long.
It seemed only fitting that the place that my father used for whatever illicit practices he decided to undertake away from the prying eyes of town, and both Cage mothers, would be the one falling into pieces. Neglect had no better name than Loren Cage.
I set up another log, rolled my shoulders once again, and let out a grunt as I split it in two.
With each movement my burn scars twisted and stretched, and the bile rising in my throat told me I was probably going to end up in more pain than I should be—I deserved it.
Especially after what I had done with Harper.
Talk about fucking up a reunion. I had just been tongue-tied seeing her. I knew it. But what the hell had she been doing out alone?
Whack, another log, another wheeze from my throat because I was out of shape when it came to this type of movement.
My knee was already swelling, and I would have to limp back up the deck stairs that would probably crumble beneath me thanks to the rotted core of them. Yet part of me whispered I deserved it—just like my father.
I had a feeling I knew why dear old dad had left this place to me in the will outside of the other Cage’s purview. Only the damn lawyer had known about it and hadn’t had the grace to tell me until after the plane crash. It most likely had been stuck in probate and had been an addendum in some will that no one had seen.
I didn’t know the timeline, and I frankly didn’t care. Maybe he had just hidden it until the perfect time to annoy the fuck out of me. That seemed like something a lawyer my dad would employ would do.
I hated this place. Every time I walked through that door down the hall with the tattered wallpaper and partially rotted subfloor, I could scent Dad’s cigar smoke. That tobacco wafting through the air and seeping into the walls themselves. The sound of ice clinking against glass as he sipped at his bourbon, talking in wild tones to whoever dared to listen.
