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Someone was about to find us.
Della shook harder as I froze in place. My jeans were across the loft where Della must’ve hung them over the ladder rail to dry. My boots were neatly placed out of reaching distance. My socks spread out and smelly on a sack of molasses-infused animal meal.
My bottom half was practically naked, and my top half could barely breathe.
A cough exploded through my fingers, uncaring that it had just condemned both of us to discovery.
“Who’s there?” a female voice snapped.
A horse whi
“Ren.” Della squirmed closer, seeking comfort and safety that in my stupidity and sickness I couldn’t provide. I’d chosen this place. I’d been the one unable to wake at dawn. I’d been the one who didn’t leave before we were noticed.
I was the one to blame for all of this.
Another cough spilled from my lips as my fever crested, and I blinked back teeth-aching chills.
All I could do was hold Della close and hope to hell I could talk my way out of whatever was about to happen.
A head appeared.
A head with long brown hair the colour of the bay horse below, green eyes, red lips—wariness and anger the perfect makeup on a very pretty face. About my age or slightly older, the girl’s petite hands gripped the ladder as she locked eyes on me.
Three things happened.
One, my flu-riddled body threatened to pass out from added stress.
Two, my boxers tightened as my body reacted to stimuli it’d been denied for months.
And three, the strangest sensation of guilt and unease filled me, because even though she was my enemy, I wanted to know her.
The moment ended as suddenly as it’d begun.
She raised her chin, cocked her head, and snarled, “And just who the hell are you?”