Chapter 20 · Paragraph Nine

He didn't push me through the door. He threw me.

My shoulder hit first. Then my hip. The shack shuddered like it wanted to come down on both of us and call it a mercy. Rain leaked through the roof in three places and ran down the inside of the glass. Old cot. Gray blanket. Woodstove. A shelf of empty jars somebody had set out years ago and never filled.

Home sweet home.

"Don't." I got my feet under me before he could reach for me again. "Don't put your hands on me."

Torin shut the door. Not a slam. Slow. Then the bolt turned, and that little iron click went down my spine like ice water.

He stayed there, rain running off him, puddling on the boards. Blood on his sleeve — his own, from the rocks he'd crawled over to get down to me. Breath coming out of him in white.

"Silver ink," he said. "My own house. My own council watching me do it. You think a man just walks that off?"

"I ended a contract. There's a difference. You signed it."

"Three years I put a roof over your head—