Page 30 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

She lifts her own mug to her lips. She takes a slow sip of the black, cinnamon-laced coffee. She swallows.

"I know," Susan says quietly. Her voice is pure iron. "Because you hold the line."

The words lock into place inside my head. The chaotic rage that defined my life extinguishes, replaced by a cold, lethal clarity. I take a drink of the burning hot coffee. I taste the cinnamon. I smell the beeswax on her skin. The cold whips around us, rattling the empty branches of the oaks, but standing here beside her, I’m immovable.

Let the Syndicate come. Let them try to find their way through the dark.

This farm is my territory. This woman is my anchor. And I’ll slaughter anyone who tries to take her away.

9

Susan

Splintered pine and crushed neon plastic form a jagged mountain on my front step. The frigid air rips off the northern ridge, biting straight through my flannel shirt, but the cold doesn't even register against my skin. The man standing on the other side of the debris commands every single ounce of oxygen in the atmosphere.

Alas.

His chest rises and falls in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. His gaze locks onto mine, burning with an unblinking intensity that would send any sane woman running for the hills. But I’m not running. I’m staring at his hands.

They’re a wreck. Smears of copper-scented blood mix with sticky, hardened pine sap across his knuckles. Deep gouges line his palms, slicing through the calluses. Dirt is packed under his fingernails. He spent the night taking down the markers. For hours, in the pitch-black darkness, he hunted down every surveyor stake and plastic ribbon. These were the ones the Silver Serpent Syndicate hammered into my south trail. He tore apart their legal right-of-passage easement with his bare hands and a combat knife. He erased their claim.

He bled for my dirt.

The armor I’ve worn every day for the last two years fractures right down the middle. An aching crack splits the defensive shell I built around this farm. Fighting alone was my only survival tactic. Letting anyone help meant admitting I was failing. Letting anyone in meant giving them the power to leave.

Alas isn't leaving. He’s standing where he planted himself, waiting for my next move.

"You look like you wrestled a woodchipper." My voice comes out raspy, lacking its usual sarcastic bite.

"Trail's clear." His voice is low and steady. "Nobody crosses the line."

I look from the pile of destroyed Syndicate markers back to his bleeding knuckles. The magnitude of his violence is terrifying, but it’s directed outward, forming an impenetrable wall between me and the rest of the world. The relief is physical, a weight sliding off my shoulders. I don't have to carry the farm alone today. I don't have to patrol the tree line alone.

"Get inside." I step back, holding the door open. "Before you bleed to death on my doorstep and I have to bill your club for the stain removal."

A low, rough sound vibrates in his chest. A rough approximation of a laugh. He steps over the ruined stakes, bringing the sharp scent of crushed pine needles, sweat, and cold mountain air into my hallway. He fills the space instantly, his broad shoulders practically brushing the doorframes. I lead him into the kitchen, pointing to the sturdy oak chair at the table my grandfather built.

Alas sits. He doesn't fidget. He doesn't complain. His stillness is unbroken, a calm that usually belongs to apex predators waiting to strike. But right now, that stillness is offered to me.

I retrieve the plastic first-aid kit from the cabinet above the sink, setting it on the table with a thud. Pulling up a chair opposite him, I reach out. My hands tremble slightly. I hate the weakness, but the adrenaline of the morning is crashing hard.

He flips his hands palms up, offering them to me without a word.

I take his left hand. His skin is burning hot, a stark contrast to the freezing temperatures outside. The calluses are as rough as sandpaper against my softer palms. I soak a white cotton washcloth in warm water and iodine, wringing it out before pressing it to the deepest cut across his knuckles.

He doesn't flinch. Not a single muscle twitches.

"This is going to sting," I mutter, applying more pressure to clean out the embedded dirt.

"No." He stares at my mouth. "It doesn't."

The utter conviction in his tone sends heat crawling up my neck. He isn't trying to act tough. The physical pain genuinely doesn’t register for him compared to the psychological anchor of sitting in this kitchen with me. I scrub the dried blood away, revealing the split skin underneath. The contrast between my hands—stained with honey and propolis—and his hands—built for breaking bones and snapping necks—is jarring. Yet, they fit together perfectly.

"You didn't have to do it alone," I say quietly, keeping my eyes fixed on the washcloth. "Mac brought you a radio. You could’ve called your brothers. You could’ve asked for backup."

"My job." The words are a low rumble. "My perimeter."

I swap the bloody washcloth for a clean one, moving to his right hand. "The club president told me to leave. Logan made it very clear that staying here is a tactical liability."