Page 11 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 11

H e choked, and Gretta scrambled from his lap. She stood over him, shaking, as every part of her that had touched him burned with mortification.

How could she have thrown herself at him? He wasn’t Ansel. This was a misunderstanding, maybe an elaborate fraud. That made the most sense. She couldn’t begin to explain why he’d trick her like this, but she knew he was clever and demented enough to pull it off.

Except, as she looked him over with unblinded eyes, she saw the truth in every line of his wretched face. Even the way he arched in a coughing fit dredged up memories she’d carefully buried. It was obvious , humiliatingly so. She should have recognized him that first night.

But how could she have known he’d grow up to be this? Ansel had been her ally and protector, her safe place in a horror house. When they’d lay in their cage at night, wondering if they were next to be eaten, he’d hold her until her tears dried, and she’d fall asleep cradled against his skinny chest.

Lab Coat dumped her in another cage. He commodified her.

How was she supposed to reconcile that?

As Ansel struggled to breathe, Gretta bent over with her hands on her knees.

She couldn’t handle this. There was no way to process it, so she wouldn’t try. All she could do was light everything inside her on fire and bury the ashes, like she had as a girl.

She’d bury him , for good this time.

When she straightened, Ansel reached for her. She backed away, coldly repeating his words from the day before: “Never touch me again. I don’t give a fuck who you are, it changes nothing.”

He planted a foot in the mud and hoisted to his feet. “It changes everything .”

“Not for me. As far as I’m concerned, Ansel is dead.” And he killed him. Grief stabbed her, but she hardened herself to it. She’d mourned him once, she wouldn’t do it again. This Ansel wasn’t worth it.

Wincing against the rain in his eyes, he cupped her jaw.

She knocked his hand away. “I said don’t touch me!”

He recoiled. His eyes pleaded, and they followed her as she brushed past him toward the prison. Returning there sickened her, but she had no choice. She would not die in a swamp because of him.

She didn’t look back but sensed him behind her. The rain poured harder as they left the canopy. She let him open the door then plowed forward until she reached an intersection in the hall.

She turned, evaluating each corridor except the one she’d escaped from. “I’m not going back to the cell. Point me in a direction, and I’ll find some other room.”

“Gretta, will you please just talk to me?”

“I guarantee you do not want to hear anything I have to say.”

“I do. ” He came closer. “I want all of it, every thought in your head!”

She opened her mouth, ready to oblige him. Then shut it.

What was the point of getting into it? She no longer cared about him enough to waste the energy. If he didn’t already know what she thought of him, he was welcome to fill in the blanks any way he pleased. “I want a room with a bed and clean water for washing. A room without bars , if you don’t mind.”

His face twisted. “Gretta…I can’t believe I did that. I’m so sorry, I’m a piece of shit! I don’t even have the words to—” Blinking fast, he tipped his head back and held it there. When it came forward again, his bloodshot eyes had trouble meeting hers.

Gretta yawned. If he ever got around to giving her a decent bed, she’d sleep like a corpse. She’d spent the night sharpening her stick, and it felt like weeks had passed since Seven brought the abandoned breakfast tray.

Her stomach grumbled. “I want something to eat, too.”

He stood in a daze, clutching his hair.

“You know what, forget it.” She chose a hall at random. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

“Wait! I’ll take you. Come with me.”

Gretta wrapped her quivering arms around her waist and followed him. With his mouth blessedly shut, he led her through wide, arched corridors. Water trickled between the old bricks. The luminescent mildew was brighter here, lighting the way well enough for her to keep her distance from him.

They reached a narrower hall with ordinary, moldy doors. He unlocked one, and she cautiously followed him inside.

It was a spacious bedroom with the same stone floor as the rest of the prison. Two windows let in fetid light, their glass rattling from the wind. The ceiling dripped on a rag rug, creating a dark spot in the middle, but the room was otherwise dry. An unmade bed dominated the corner, and a cold fireplace took up a wall. Clothes and books were strewn all over, as well as papers containing handwritten notes and diagrams.

His scent was everywhere. It had changed over the years, darkening somehow, but she recognized it. If she hadn’t been screaming so hard when he’d been dragging her around, she might have smelled him and put it together sooner.

For all the good it would have done.

Ansel frowned at the disaster. Casting her an uneasy look, he rushed to swipe a shirt off the floor and tossed it in the fireplace.

“Don’t bother tidying up,” she said. “I’m not staying in your room.”

“I can’t let you stay anywhere else. The pixie quarters don’t have locks, and you’re not sleeping anywhere Jonas can access you.”

She touched her sore cheek. Avoiding Jonas had recently shot higher on her priority list. “I imagine Seven’s room has a lock. I’ll bunk with her.”

“Seven and Jonas share quarters.”

Gretta gaped at him.

Ansel lit a lantern on the dresser and returned to her. “I’ll make you a deal. If you accept this room, I won’t enter it again without your permission, and I’ll give you the master key to the facility. It unlocks all doors except the one across the hall.”

Did he really have one? Now that she thought about it, he never carried a full set the way Seven did, and the one he used for her cell had opened the back door when he took her outside. If she was stuck in this hellhole until the storm passed, having free access would make her feel less trapped.

But was it worth gagging on his scent?

“Show it to me,” she said.

He pulled the key from his pocket, and she ripped it from his hand. Maybe he had some perfumed candles laying around.

“No one else has access to this room,” he said. “Keep it locked at all times.”

“I will. Now leave me alone.”

His pained gaze lowered to her cheek. “You have an abrasion. Will you let me treat it before I go? I’ll touch you as little as necessary.”

“I’ll take care of it myself.”

He waved a finger back and forth across her eyes as he studied her pupils. “How does your head feel? Any dizziness? Sleepiness? Nausea?”

“I know what a concussion feels like, I don’t have one.”

His face clouded over. He dropped his finger, leaning in. “Who gave you a concussion?”

“Stop looming over me. It’s getting old.”

“ Who , Gretta? Tell me, or I’ll visit Antrelle and beat it out of every goddamn man in the city!”

Fucking hell. He was as psychotic as Jonas. “I got it at work, alright? It was an accident.” She’d rescued a vampire from a witch’s attic, and in his panic, he’d knocked her out.

“What the hell do you do for a living?”

“None of your business. Back off .”

He did, a little. Gretta wrung out her muddy tunic’s hem.

“Wait here,” he said, heading for a room off to the side. When he came back, he offered her a towel.

Gretta took it between two fingers. “Is it clean?”

“Yes,” he said, flushing.

She unfolded it and wiped her neck and hair. “I assume that was a washroom. I want water brought here for a bath. You can leave buckets in the hall.”

He gave her a subdued nod. Gretta silently dismissed him, touring the room as she patted herself dry. She picked up a book— Economics of the Trollish-Goblin War —and tossed it on a chair.

“Gretta?”

“What.”

He didn’t answer. Sighing impatiently, she turned to him.

And jolted.

His expression held more than pain and regret. He looked totally hopeless. Lost. She had no sympathy whatsoever, but it shook her. Ansel the boy had always been so positive, facing torment and fear with unwavering optimism for their future. And Lab Coat certainly didn’t have a sunny disposition, but there’d been a sturdiness to him.

Now he just looked broken.

“ What , Lab Coat?”

Straightening, he attempted to get his face under control. “I’d like to tell you again how sorry I am. It’s not enough, I know, and I don’t imagine you care, but I…” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I just needed you to hear it again.”

She plucked a medical journal off a table and flipped through it. “Right. Do you have anything to read that isn’t mind-numbing? Or better yet, do you have any booze?”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but can you please say something ? I’d rather you eviscerate me than pretend this doesn’t matter!”

She tossed the journal aside and approached him. “That’s the thing. This doesn’t matter. You don’t matter. If you want to hear the truth, I pretty much forgot about you within days of escaping the cottage.” She shrugged and added, “I guess that’s why I didn’t recognize you.”

He went still, eyes stricken. “…I don’t believe that. I understand why you hate me now, but you won’t convince me you didn’t care before.”

“Believe me or don’t, I couldn’t give less of a shit. But ask yourself this. Why do you think I never said goodbye?”

He inhaled sharply. His eyes wavered and closed. When he opened them, they were vacant.

“I see.” He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “You said you’d like something to eat. I’ll leave a tray beside the bathwater. Do you need anything else?”

“My boots. Clean clothes, too.”

“In the dresser, there’s—”

“I won’t wear anything that belongs to you. Get something from Seven or one of the other pixies.”

Three heartbeats passed before he stiffly nodded and turned. When he finally left, she locked the door and pressed her back to it, sliding until she hit the floor.