Page 21

Kael

“I thought you said antique, not let’s go and get murdered. This place is a fire hazard at best. Does someone really live here?”

When Dravin turns and stares at me with absolutely no expression at all, I immediately regret my choice of words.

We’ve driven a few hours south of Hart. We passed by quite a few small towns and houses scattered all over that might have technically belonged to some town or other.

I know that we’re not that far away from any major city, but it feels as though we’re in the middle of nowhere.

Shamefully, I’m a city girl through and through. Did I grow up in nice areas? No. I shouldn’t be judging someone’s house, although house might be a strong word. I don’t see anything that resembles something that someone might actually live in.

We pulled down a long driveway off a gravel road that was more dirt than gravel and more holes than solid ground.

Dravin asked around the club for a truck and Atlas asked Willa if we could use hers.

It’s not old, but it’s not new. It’s a diesel and it snorts and smells and is the typical kind of vehicle that would cost a fortune if we broke something.

Dravin’s brow arches. “I think that domed building is a workshop. Dominic’s a carver.”

“Like with wood?”

“With stone. I guess I should have said sculptor.”

“How do you know that? Did you cyber creep him after messaging him online?” That’s something that Dravin would do. Obviously.

“Cyberstalk is such a strong word.”

I cross my arms, wrinkling my nose at him. “Did you?”

He can’t keep a straight face. His coy smile turns into a grin that grows so big it actually looks a little bit goofy.

And beautiful. And fucking radiant . His mouth appears almost too big until he truly smiles and then his whole face lights up and when he laughs, it laughs with him.

That sudden burst of charm straight up sucker punches me.

“Nah. We messaged back and forth about what I’m looking for and he gave me the info, and he told me he’s a sculptor.

His family owns quite a bit of land. He said that his grandpa was a bit of a hoarder when it came to old junk—his words, not mine.

He told me to come here, and we could go out and look through all the piles and pick out what we wanted if we found anything. He’d be here at his shop, working.”

We both turn to the domed building. It was entirely covered in shingles at one time, from the ground all the way to the top, but half of them have stripped away.

Windows are punched in haphazardly, with no specific pattern.

The building’s placement itself seems random, as though someone hefted it, closed their eyes, and hurled it down.

The fields surrounding it are littered with piles of scrap and old cars, like a mini vehicle boneyard.

“This place kind of has chainsaw killer horror movie vibes. You’re sure that if we go knock on the door that we’re not going to be the first to die?”

He laughs. Of course he does. Dravin would never have brought us somewhere that wasn’t safe.

I might be making a big deal out of this, but I realize that I’m not actually uncertain.

Once I realized that I do have faith in him, it’s become second nature to see it for what it is.

Do I also think that he’s physically trained enough that he could crack spines and improvise weapons if he had to?

Yes. And my damn nipples shouldn’t be getting hard and my stomach all full of butterflies just thinking about that.

We don’t have to knock. Dravin just drives up a few feet, but Dominic obviously heard the diesel jamming away out here. It’s loud and rumbly enough to rattle half the scrap metal around us.

The faded brown door cracks open.

“Glahhh, what—” I jump in my seat, my pinched lungs cutting my words short as a man entirely coated in white powder appears.

He stares at us through grime encrusted safety glasses, then shakes himself off like a dog. A cloudy fog appears around the figure, but after it settles, dust still clings to his clothes and the lines of his face.

Which isn’t right.

Dravin shuts the truck off while I try very hard just to sit and observe, but also not to stare . “He did mention that he had an accident last year. He was nearly crushed to death by a slab of stone falling on him.”

It’s obvious where the damage was done. The whole right side of Dominic’s body isn’t right.

He walks with a limp as he takes a few steps, cradling his arm near his chest. Even with all the dust and grime coating his face, I can easily see that his nose has been badly broken, and his cheekbone probably crushed.

It gives his face a half droopy, half mangled, snarled up expression.

I quickly get my eyes down to my lap. My face is a thousand degrees.

Dravin not so subtly pushes back the long strand of hair that drapes over his forehead and obscures the scarring there. I still feel like a total asshole for bugging him about his hair when it was so intentionally cut.

The person I used to be was someone who could find the art in other people. That version of me easily picked out the beauty, pulling it from reluctant hiding places and bringing it into the light.

I shouldn’t be sitting here now, wishing like hell that I could get that back.

The more time I spend with Dravin, the easier it is. Every time I look at him, it’s like seeing him for the first time and not the first time at all. I keep finding myself oddly captivated, falling deeper into the person he is, entranced by a magnetism I didn’t know existed.

Dominic and Dravin make this weird eye contact and then Dravin grins again, smiling with his whole face, including all the little creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and gets out of the truck.

He walks confidently over to Dominic and offers his hand. I guess that he must do most of his sculpting with his left hand, and maybe he was naturally left handed, but either way, Dravin offers his left hand. I know he’s righthanded, and that small gesture floods my chest with warmth.

I crack my door and their conversation drifts over.

“There’s no one here but me now. My uncles and cousins moved on. They married into land elsewhere or got jobs in the city. This was a family thing, but they signed it all over to my dad, and when he passed, it filtered down to me.”

Dominic has a nice speaking voice. A little raspy, but somehow it improves the tone. He’s so easy and relaxed with Dravin, an almost instant camaraderie between them, but I can’t imagine he’s that way with everyone.

When I get out of the truck, Dominic stiffens but keeps talking.

“Everything that’s been left here is mine now.

No one’s coming back for it. My grandpa and even my dad loved old bikes and cars.

Like really, really loved them. He tried to teach me about mechanics, but I was never any good at it.

I always loved stone. It’s a weird thing to find out you’re into, but my grandpa collected all sorts of shit, and he had a bunch of blocks lying around.

He wanted to give carving a try, so he had a set of tools and…

” He waves his left hand, the ruined part of his face casting a lopsided aspect to his shy smile.

“I guess you don’t need a life history lesson if you’re just here to check out the junk. ”

“No. I’m interested. I’ve never met anyone who carves.” Dravin has this way of speaking to a person that makes them feel like they have a hundred percent of his attention.

It’s not an act. He knows how to listen .

“I started out small. Found I was really good at it. I’m entirely self-taught, but I think art schools are really more about form and discipline and that stifles a lot of people. I’ve hardly left here if I’m being honest…” He flushes right through the stone dust on his face when he admits that.

There’s a ring around his mouth and nose that I now realize was from some kind of breathing protection that he must have shed before he came out here.

“I started out small and sold a few pieces. I figured out that if I wanted to get my work out there, I’d need to go beyond this little piece of land I was raised on, outside this whole area and anyone that might know me.

I made a website and started using social media.

I don’t like it really. I’m a loner and…

well—” He points at his face. “This isn’t exactly inviting.

I won’t be starring in photoshoots anytime soon.

I was working on this huge commission, and I wasn’t careful enough.

I got crushed underneath. I laid there for hours and hours.

There was no one to come pull me out. My phone was across the shop. ”

He’s totally calm talking about it, but panic creeps up my throat, stifling me. I sag against the truck, wrapping my arms around my midsection. I can’t imagine the terror of having something like that happen to me. Or the pain.

Dravin betrays nothing. It’s another big epiphany for me, understanding that he can be stoic when he wants to. What he’s shown me was because he allowed it.

Or maybe because he can’t stay neutral with me.

If so, same. Fucking. Same .

“The floor’s dirt in there, which was probably the only thing that saved me. I kept wriggling back and forth. It hurt like hell, but eventually I got myself free. I dragged myself across the room, pulled myself up by a leg of the workbench, got my phone, and called for an ambulance.”

Dravin nods and what passes between the two of them is so intimate and kind that it’s gut wrenching, heart breaking, and restores the slivers of faith I had left in humanity.

Dravin doesn’t have to say that he’s been through similar shit—getting close to death, that is.

He admitted that my brother saved him seven times, and for a moment the enormity of that sinks in.