Chapter 4: Knuckles

Dane stayed behind the clubhouse door all morning.

I knocked once, and he said through the wood, "Not now, Lexi," and that was the end of that.

So I did what I had done for five years when I had no answer.

I went looking for something to do with my hands.

The shop sat at the edge of the compound, a long tin building with its doors rolled up.

The smell of cut pine poured out of it.

Inside, there were half-built cabinets on sawhorses and a lathe in the corner.

Talon stood at a workbench with his sleeves pushed up, running a plane down the edge of a board.

Pale curls of wood dropped from it and landed in the sawdust on the floor.

He didn't turn around.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"How did you know it was me?"

"You walk like you're apologizing to the floor."

I looked down at my feet, in a pair of June's socks and a pair of Wick's old boots.

"I'm not apologizing."

"I noticed." He set the plane down and finally looked at me. "That was something earlier. In the yard."

"I was shaking."

"I know. I had my hand on your back." He said it simply. "You said no anyway."

My face went hot, and I was glad of the gauze to hide behind.

"What is that?" I asked, pointing past him.

In the back corner a heavy black bag hung from a ceiling beam on a chain.

"Mine," Talon said. "I hit it when I'm angry."

"Do you hit it a lot?"

"I hit it twice before breakfast."

He said it so evenly that I didn't know whether it was a joke.

Then he crossed the shop, unhooked a pair of fraying gloves from a nail, and held them out.

"Try it."

"I don't know how."

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