Page 133 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“You’ve barely left your cabin for days.”

I stare down at him, hands braced on the porch railings. “You’re worrying again.”

“It’s kinda my job to.”

“Is it?” I snap back.

Hurt crosses his strong features, twisting his lips into a grimace. Ever since my row with Lola, things have been tense. It feels like we’re tiptoeing around each other again.

They’ve all been gifted a glimpse into the horror of my past, and none of them know what to say to me now. I’ve shut down any further attempts to talk about what I revealed that day.

“I have work to do.” I turn my back on him. “The spare bedroom isn’t going to paint itself.”

As I head back inside the cabin, Killian’s loud footsteps catch up to me. My arm is wrenched backwards, preventing me from escaping. I’m powerless to resist the magnetism of his eyes burning into me, demanding something I’m not able to give.

“Willow,” he rumbles. “Please.”

I push his chest, trying to wriggle free. “What?”

“You’ve got to stop pushing us away. We can’t do this again. I’m not going back to how things were between us when we first met.”

“You didn’t have a problem with it then.”

“Well I do now, alright?” he thunders. “I care about you too fucking much to watch you self-destruct in private while giving us all this bullshit smile in public.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my smile.”

“You think I can’t tell? I know every goddamn inch of you, inside and out. You’re in pain and it’s killing me that you won’t let me help you carry the burden.”

“This is what I need to do to survive! Can’t you respect that?” I shout at him.

Recoiling like I’ve slapped him, Killian’s grip on my arm releases. I take a big step backwards, needing space between us before I melt into his arms.

“Fine,” he growls out.

“Fine.”

“I guess I’ll be going then.”

With a final muttered curse, he turns on his heel and marches away. I stand frozen in the doorway of the cabin, watching him return to his woodpile and resume chopping with renewed rage. The logs don’t stand a chance.

After throwing on my painting clothes in a torrent of frustration, I return to the spare bedroom and face my task. This room has been left until last to be repainted, while I’m beginning to furniture shop for the others.

We’ve been sleeping off bare mattresses and eating dinner in our laps since we officially moved in. The guys insisted that we could stay with them for as long as we needed to, but I was all packed up by the next day, needing my own space.

A couple of hours into painting, I’ve zoned out. The monotonous back and forth of the roller against the wall drowns out all other thoughts. I don’t register the slow clapping and someone else entering the room until it’s too late.

“This is looking great.” Zach stops beside me. “Nice and bright.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You need a hand? Killian’s gone to haul all that wood to the town square for next weekend, so I’m off the hook.”

“I’ve got this.”

“I know you’ve got it,” he echoes. “I’m asking if you need help.”

With a snarl, I throw the roller down into the paint palette. “Did Killian send you over here? What is it with you three? I told you all that I needed space.”

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