Page 30 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 30

G retta’s mouth felt stuffed with sawdust. A tiny hammer pounded in her temples. Groaning, she opened her eyes to find morning sunlight peeking through the curtains.

She lay draped over Ansel’s chest, their legs entangled and their arms clamped around each other like manacles. The sheet and blanket lay in a pile at their feet.

Two slow blinks.

A long inhale.

Gretta’s breath released on a shriek. “Whatthefuckinghell?!”

Ansel jerked awake.

Wriggling in his arms, she cried, “Ansel, let go !”

His eyes cleared as he absorbed the scene. With a deep exhale, he released her and stared at the ceiling, gripping his hair.

Gretta scooted to the far side of the bed. Her rumpled tunic hung from one shoulder. Her pants were missing altogether. He was fully clothed, but that didn’t mean he’d stayed that way all night.

She dragged the sheet to her chin. “Holy shit. Did we…?”

“No . ”

She dipped a hand under the sheet and felt her drawers. They were dry, but…

“Did you…do anything to me?” she asked.

He leapt from the bed and slammed a hand on his hip. “Goddammit, Gretta! Do you really believe I’d violate you?”

Guilt stung her because she knew he wouldn’t. “I’m sorry. But would you please explain how we ended up like this?”

“Gladly.” He crossed his arms. “As I’m sure you’ve deduced, you came back tanked last night. You kicked off your own pants when I helped you in the bathroom, then you asked me to stay when I put you to bed.”

“You helped me in the bathroom?” I asked him to stay?!

Foggy memories solidified, becoming sharper the more she tried to push them away. She’d told him about getting fired. He’d brought her to the bathroom. Like a sloppy idiot, she’d fallen on her ass.

And god. He had helped her piss.

That mortifying image became an afterthought when she remembered what happened before it. He’d pulled her out of the shower and held her as she cried.

She fucking cried. In his lap .

Oh, but there’s more! When he tried to put you to bed, you humped him like a dog in heat and begged him to fuck you. Then you made him sleep by you when he tried to leave.

brAVO, you stupid cow!

Embarrassment and self-loathing churned with the leftover booze in her stomach. She lurched off the bed and stumbled, barely reaching the wastebasket in time. Brandy and acid spewed from her lips in pure liquid, since she hadn’t eaten the night before.

Cursing, he crouched beside her and gathered her hair.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, hiding her face.

“I don’t care about a little vomit. Let me help you.”

His gentle tone in the face of her ugliness dumped kerosene on her humiliation. So did the way she wanted to lean against his chest and let him stroke her hair, like he used to when she got sick.

What was happening to her?

She reared back, yanking her hair from his hands. “I said don’t touch me! Leave me the fuck alone , for once.”

He blinked twice. The look on his face told her she may as well have slapped him. Then he stood, expression flat.

Gretta covered her mouth, wishing she could stuff the words back in.

“ Anse ,” she said to his back.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Wincing, Gretta slunk into bed and pulled the covers over her head. She clutched at her resentment for what he’d done to her, telling herself he deserved whatever she gave him. But there wasn’t much anger left to hold on to.

And this time, he didn’t deserve her venom. He hadn’t made her get so plastered, the stoic bartender had cut her off. It wasn’t his fault she’d whipped off her pants and thrown herself at him. A classy act he’d resisted, by the way.

Gretta had earned her humiliation all on her own. And there was no more denying she had two problems.

Drinking was the first. She’d always thought she could hold her liquor, but last night proved her control was slipping. She’d brushed Brand off when he brought it up, but as always, he’d been right. She needed to at least try cutting back.

Problem two: she couldn’t seem to keep her hands off Ansel. She didn’t even have problem one as an excuse at Isobel’s, since the wine had worn off well before she’d mauled him. And last night, she’d been fucked up but also more honest.

She’d wanted to touch him. Both times. Hell, if he came back that moment, she’d probably drag him into bed and crawl into his lap because apparently she couldn’t stay out of it.

It was getting harder to plausibly convince herself she still hated him. And that made the throbbing in her temples worse.

She rolled out of bed. A shower would clear her head. Then she’d…apologize? She wasn’t great at that, and the idea made her want to hunch over the wastebasket again. But she’d been an asshole. Pretending otherwise would make her pigheaded.

Gretta hated it when Philip was right.

Ansel sat on the chaise with his bags at his feet, staring at the wall as the morning replayed in his head. He relived her horror at waking with him, her fear he’d taken advantage of her. Rather than improving, her opinion of him had sunk to the lowest possible depths.

Did any of it surprise you, idiot? Did you actually believe her drunken affection would last?

He hadn’t, not really. And he knew sleeping beside her had been stupid. But last night, he’d been intoxicated on her confessions, deluding himself some part of her had meant them. He’d let hope cloud his already shitty judgment.

No more. She’d told him to leave her the fuck alone, and he would. Their shared objective didn’t make them friends, and they’d certainly never be lovers.

The shadows in Ansel’s mind returned, gray instead of black today. Which meant a cycle of depression was creeping in, promising welcome numbness.

The parlor door opened, and Philip entered. He strode to his chamber without acknowledging Ansel.

Depression stepped aside for aggression.

Ansel blocked Philip’s way, and the fucker paused, his invisible stare radiating from the red hood. When he tried skirting around, Ansel stopped him with a palm to the chest.

Philip’s shrouded head tipped to Ansel’s hand. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“A warning. I don’t care for the way you speak to Gretta. If I hear you’ve insulted her again, I’ll break your fucking face.”

“Interesting… Has the gaoler developed tender feelings for his captive?”

“Tell me you understand.” Silence greeted Ansel. He grabbed a fistful of cloak, getting in close. “Maybe I’ll do it now to be certain I’ve convinced you. I don’t see your knife today.” He jerked the fabric, and the hood slipped off.

Ansel inhaled, stepping back as he stared in horrified awe.

Three livid scars slashed one side of Philip’s face. Their ragged edges started deep in his hairline and ended at his jaw. The flesh between them was the color of a dead fish’s belly, and the eye on that side had a milky blue film over the pupil. It was all the more grotesque for the unmarred perfection of the other half.

Philip’s good eye was a startling, icy green, and he had pointed ears. Ansel didn’t recognize his species, but it wasn’t human.

Laughing bitterly, Philip replaced the hood. “As you can see, threats to my face don’t frighten me much.”

“All the same, I want to hear you say you understand me.”

“Whatever ends this conversation. I understand .”

Ansel released him. An odd sort of courtesy kept him from peering into the hood’s shadows.

“You know,” Philip drawled, “I think I’m pleased she talked us out of giving you to the cops. Watching her turn your heart into ground meat will be far more entertaining.”

Gretta emerged from the bathroom in a humid, strawberry-lemon fog. She sized up the pair of them before snagging her boots on her way to a chair.

Philip returned to his chamber. Since Ansel had nowhere else to go, he snatched his book off a table and put on his spectacles. His eyes flicked across the page.

“Your book’s upside down,” Gretta said.

Jaw rigid, he righted it.

A long silence, then her palms rasped over her thighs as she sighed. “I want to say something.”

“No need.”

“I was hungover and embarrassed. It’s not the best combination for me.”

He nodded absently, skimming an essay on the molecular structure of camphor oil. The repellent had an alcohol base, but he’d been considering alternative methods of application.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Of course.” He jotted a note in the margin.

“Will you please look at me, then?”

He lowered the book with his brow raised.

Face flushed, she opened her mouth. Then closed it.

“What, Gretta?”

“I was a sloppy mess last night,” she said in a rush. “And I was an asshole this morning. I’m…sorry.”

Her apology startled him.

“Why are you sorry?” When she didn’t respond, disappointment pricked him. He crushed it and returned his attention to the book. “I shouldn’t have slept in bed with you, so your reaction requires no apology. In fact, I appreciate the clarity.”

“Clarity?”

“Regarding our dynamic. Last night, I crossed the line. It won’t happen again.”

Before she could say anything else, Philip came out with his bags. He dropped them near the door and took a seat at the narrow secretary, snapping open a newspaper.

“How much farther to the capital?” Ansel asked.

“Four stops,” Gretta said. “Another few hours.”

“I assume I’ll no longer be accompanying you to the senator?”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Didn’t he fire you?”

Philip sniffed, and Gretta glared at him.

“That doesn’t change anything,” she said. “The repellent is too important.”

Thumping came from the roof.

She leaned forward. “You’re still coming with me, right?”

Should he? It would be easy enough to wash his hands of it. She could take his notebooks and samples to the capital alone, putting them both out of their misery. But he was the repellent’s lone expert. He’d sacrificed too much for too many years not to see it through. And he had no other connections to potential investors.

Preventing atrocities like they’d faced in the cottage was the only thing that mattered. She’d had it right all along.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m still going.”

More thumping came from above. It passed over them, followed by another round. Gretta stood, ear tipped to the pressed tin ceiling, and Philip joined her. With each thump, the crystal chandelier shivered.

“What is that?” Ansel asked. “Footsteps?”

Gretta and Philip exchanged glances.

Pressing her eyes shut, she muttered, “ Fuck .”

Ansel shot to his feet. “What the hell is going on?”

Gretta dashed to her chamber without responding.

Philip slapped his newspaper on the secretary and retrieved one of his bags. “If you brought valuables on this trip, I suggest you secure them.” He produced his knife and tested the edge. “We’re about to get robbed.”