Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
The wrinkles around her eyes deepen and she tilts her head as if flipping through her mental filing cabinet. “Generations. His people built the old houses on the ridge before the mills closed. They were hardworking folk. Still have an estate down by the river.” Sadness clouds her expression. “Sterlings stay very…attached to the Hollow.”
Attached to the Hollow. “Attached how?” I ask.
“Every family has their stories.” Her eyes are keen despite her grandmotherly smile. “Declan carries his on his skin.”
“Yes, his tattoos are stunning. So…interesting.”
She stares at me for a beat. “Yes.”
“Are his parents still here?” Maybe Declan’s mom will be a better person to interview about the Hollow’s legends. Moms always like me. Well, except for my own.
Mrs. Applewood’s eyes snap shut, and she wheezes in a pained breath. “No.”
I almost press but the sudden shift in her expression stops me cold. This isn’t retirement in a sunny climate she’s talking about. It’s loss.
He’s an orphan too.
My gaze drops to the pendant pressing against my chest. Heat prickles the back of my neck.
“Ah, I see you have one of his pendants. Good. That’s good.” She nods absently. “Make sure you wear it while you’re visiting.”
“Why?”
She reaches out and pats my arm. “Enjoy the muffins, dear. Are you still planning to visit the library today? They open at nine. Get there early if you want to poke through the archives. Mr. Baxter is particular about who handles the files.”
“Thank you,” I manage, but my brain’s stuck on her words.
The Sterlings were one of the first families.
Declan carries his stories on his skin.
She’s the third person in town who seems to believe iron will somehow protect me.
I shift the coffee and muffin bag into one hand to close the door, then lean my back against it. My fingers tighten around the iron key.
Which do I believe more—that a piece of old iron will protect me, or that I’m even in danger?
And if I am in danger, why does Declan Sterling—who was a stranger to me two days ago—think I’m worth protecting?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Declan
Sleep’s a joke.
Every time I close my eyes, I taste her. The metallic sting, the soft heat of her skin, the little sound she made when I—
Fuck! I drag my hands over my face, stubble scraping against my palms. Thinking about her, replaying our time together only makes the burn under my skin worse.
Her blood’s in me now. My tattoos hum like I swallowed lightning. No amount of pacing the length of my apartment, no amount of staring at the cold iron anchors on my walls, calms it.
By the time the sun shines its weak gray light through the fog, I’ve worn a path on the floorboards. I grab my jacket, let out a string of curses, and head for the inn. Just to check on her. That’s all. It’s my duty. My curse.
Mrs. Applewood’s in the lobby chatting with a pair of tourists about the farmer’s market. With her gray hair coiled into a tight bun and her homey plaid flannel dress, she could be a harmless little grandma who bakes muffins and shows off her prize butternut squash every fall. But there’s nothing benign about her. She was friends with my grandmother and holds many Sterling family secrets. Her lively eyes lock on me as I step inside, and her lips curl into a welcoming smile as if she’d been wondering when I’d show up this morning.
“Good morning, Declan.” Her smile widens, full of that matchmaking mischief she’s famous for. Knowing Mrs. Applewood, the second a single woman near my age checked in, she was already eyeing the Old Dutch church calendar for a free Saturday.
I dip my chin in greeting. “Morning, Mrs. Applewood.”
She moves closer and curls her hand around my arm and turns me toward the two tourists. “This is Declan Sterling. His ancestors helped found Crowsbridge Hollow. He owns the House of Ink and Iron. He and the other artists there are incredibly talented. If you’re looking for a new tattoo while you’re in town, make sure you stop by.”
The couple recoils in horror at the suggestion of some ink.
“We’re pretty booked up this weekend,” I say to let them off the hook.
The woman forces a polite smile. “Maybe next time.”
The couple scoots away from us and out the door.
I point to the stairs, itching to get away from whatever one-on-one conversation Mrs. Applewood wants to have with me. “Is Emery upstairs?”
Known me my whole life or not, she won’t give me a guest’s room number, but I can probably persuade her to call Emery.
“You just missed her.”
Good. Emery gave up and went home. Relief flickers through me, quickly followed by regret.
What if I never see her again?
“Checked out early, huh?” My question comes out rougher than I want. If I’m mad at anyone it’s myself, not Mrs. Applewood.