Page 26 of Last Man Standing

I can smell her from here, I swear.

She just needs a family of deer to wander up. Maybe a little bunny. A bird perched on her shoulder.

I break the electrical current pulsing between us and unlock my phone instead.

Me:

I’m not up her ass. In fact, I haven’t been within a hundred feet of her in over an hour.

If you think a man has to be within reaching distance to observe his mark, then you’re woefully undertrained and probably gonna be the reason your current mission fails.

That’s embarrassing.

Any updates on your end? I’ve got places to be, and babysitting your high-maintenance sister is fucking with my plans.

Lincoln:

No updates. But I’ve got eyes on this dude Jones. Recon for now.

Me:

Fuckin’ useless. Cutting comms now. Don’t text me again unless you have news.

I lock my phone and lift my binoculars once more. I can’t help myself. Bringing Scarlett into focus, my brows pinched tight over my eyes, I study her changed posture, her turned frame, her pointed glare. I follow her toned arm down to the notebook in her hand, to the page she was working on, but now it faces me.

Finally, I bark out a cathartic laugh and stare at the heavy-handed ‘FUCK OFF’ defacing her pretty picture.

Princess Scarlett is feeling big feelings today.

Dropping my hand and grabbing my phone, I push out of my chair with a chuckle and consider it time for a perimeter check anyway.

Scarlett Castro has an attitude problem, that’s for damn sure. But it’s better than the abject fear she feels when she thinks I’m not paying attention. The nail-biting and shifty eyes. The literal fucking chant she repeats in her room, where she attempts to convince herself this isn’t as bad as life used to be with Daniels.

You’re okay, Scarlett. You’re safe. Everything is okay.

I considered her weak and annoying when she first turned up. I still consider her annoying at least half of the time, but I see strength, too. I see fierceness. I see a woman unafraid to tell me to fuck off… and mean it.

She ended the life of the man who destroyed her peace, and promises every single day to lace my dinner if I keep my bullshit going.

Which is why I’ve been cooking our meals.

My momma didn’t raise a fool.

Four days after Lincoln and Nova rolled out of the driveway and headed across state lines, I stop in the living room doorway and spy Scarlett curled up on the couch. Her feet on the cushions, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her legs, and her eyes were stuck on the television.

Now they’re on me.

Nighttime darkness pulses outside, while in here, she nibbles on her fingernail and looks me up and down. The movie continues in spite of her non-attention, because she’d rather miss all the good bits and stare warily at me instead.

I was coming in here to set fresh wood on the fire, to fuel it enough to get us through the night so we don’t wake colder than her heart, but now she glares at me like I’ve already fucked her over. It’s suspicion and intolerance. It’s hatred, like she’s already decided I’m the monster my reputation swears I am.

She swallows, her throat moving with nerves, and since her hand is up by her mouth, front and center for me to pay attention to, she shows off a wrist and forearm covered in designs that weren’t there just a few hours ago.

I don’t speak.

She doesn’t look away.

I don’t move.