Page 48

“I’ve hurt you,” I say.

Without missing a beat, his eyes snap to mine. “Terribly.”

There’s no guilt associated with his admission because I already know what I’ve done, and hearing him confirm it changes nothing about the past. “I’ll try not to,” I tell him. “Moving forward.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His eyes keep straying toward the bed, and I know he expects me to change my mind the moment he gets anywhere near it. Instead, he crosses the room and takes a seat in the leather chair beside the fireplace, which is exactly what I wanted. I lower myself to my knees at his feet.

Boone says nothing at first, staring into the flames while he decides where to begin.

“Our house is small,” he finally says. “Nothing like this place. There are only a few rooms, and when winter gets bad, we close off most of them because we can’t afford enough wood to keep the entire house warm.”

I picture him there without meaning to, tucked inside some little house while snow piles against the windows.

The image bothers me.

“Why can you not chop your own?” I ask.

He raises a brow as if my question is stupid. “I do chop my own,” he says defensively. “But you still have to pay to chop trees on property that doesn’t belong to you. There’s none left on ours.”

I consider his answer, trying to understand why anyone would want to live in a village surrounded by ample resources when every one of them seems to come with a price.

“The forest, then?”

“There’s a tax, Rhys.”

A tax. Of course there is. Even the trees are accounted for.

“Anyway, my father and I would spend most winter nights in the kitchen because the stove kept it warm, and sometimes we’d bring our blankets down and sleep there when it got really cold.” A faint smile touches his mouth as he watches the fire. “There wasn’t always much food. Some nights we had bread and broth, or whatever vegetables were left from the garden, but we were together, so it never seemed as terrible as it probably sounds.”

“You were hungry.”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “My father always pretended he wasn’t, though. He’d tell me he’d already eaten while he was working, or that he wasn’t feeling well, and then he’d push whatever was left toward me.”

I don’t like that either.

“He gave you his food.”

“He’s my father.” Boone looks down at me like that should explain everything. “He took care of me.”

I look toward the fire because I understand the individual words, but there is something about the way Boone says them that feels foreign to me.

“We weren’t miserable, Rhys,” he continues quietly. “We didn’t have much, but that doesn’t mean we were unhappy. Sometimes my father would bring home a little meat, and we’d make stew and stretch it for three or four days. Lucien would occasionally bring us things too.”

I look at him immediately. “Lucien?”

Boone nods. “He lives in the village.”

I wait.

“He has a larger farm than ours, so they always had more than we did, and sometimes he’d bring eggs or flour or meat when he knew things were bad.” Boone rubs his thumb absently along the worn leather arm of the chair. “He was always trying to take care of me.”

I don’t like the sound of that. “Why?”

Boone gives me a strange look. “Because he wanted to marry me.”

I stop moving. “He asked?”

“More than once.” Boone gives a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “His father owns a good piece of land, and Lucien kept telling me I’d never have to worry about food or winter again if I married him. My father thought I should at least consider it.”