Deadly Oath

3. Sabrina

3

SAbrINA

I watch Kian go, that unsettled feeling lingering with me. I can ask Marie if he was telling the truth, I remind myself, gulping down the remainder of my coffee and setting my mug in the sink. He said he met her, so if he was lying, that’s uncovered easily enough.

And his story makes sense. I remember Sheriff Wayne when he came by, right after I moved in. He looked every inch and more the sixty-five years that he claimed to be, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he retired—at least if it came from someone other than the handsome, supposedly new sheriff who showed up on my front step.

And why don’t you believe him? I ask myself, as I rinse out my mug and his, irritated at the sight of his leftover coffee that’s now wasted. If he didn’t like it, I think as I scrub the rim, he could have just said so. But of course, that wouldn’t have been in keeping with the small-town manners I’m confronted with constantly.

There was something about him that unsettled me. But as I finish washing the mugs—a little too vigorously—I can’t help but wonder if it’s less because there’s something actually off about Sheriff Kian Brady, and more because of the other half of my reaction to him.

He was gorgeous. Unfairly, inappropriately gorgeous. Chiseled jaw, dark blue eyes, and that thick, coppery reddish-brown hair, the kind of hair that women would die to run their hands through as that bit of stubble on his jaw scraped over their skin. Muscles that strained at the sleeves of his uniform shirt. I even thought I saw a glimpse of tattoos, under the edge of the long sleeves.

I felt something unfamiliar—and unwanted—stir the moment I saw him standing there. A wash of heat that I can only imagine was desire, although I’ve never really felt it before. The men paraded in front of me in my old life were—cold. Polished. Brutal, but in a way that they’d carefully honed to hide it behind a facade of respectability. Young or old, there was always something stiff about them, something that defied any consideration of desire on my part. And there was always the way they looked at me—like I was something to be appraised. Like a piece of fine art. Purchased, then hung up in their mansion for their viewing pleasure, to show off to their associates.

What I felt from Kian— Sheriff Brady , I remind myself sternly, as I dry off my hands—was something entirely different. Something rawer, more dangerous. It set off something inside of me, some primal instinct, and I don’t know how I feel about it. It makes me want to ward him off—but at the same time, I’m curious.

Or , I think as I grab my purse, you have too much time on your hands and an overactive imagination. If Kian Brady is the new sheriff, as he claims, then there’s nothing dangerous about him. He is, as he said, someone I can call on if I need something. Nothing more than that.

I hear the sound of the door opening—undoubtedly Marie—and a second later, her cheery voice ringing through my otherwise silent house.

“Sabrina! Are you ready to go?”

“Coming!” I call out, hooking my purse strap over my shoulder and heading for the living room. Maybe I should get a cat, I think wryly. Maybe that would do something about the oppressive silence—and my lack of companionship.

Or maybe it would be just one more thing for me to leave behind, if I have to run again.

Marie is standing in the small entryway, her brown leather purse slung over one shoulder. She’s very pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way, with blonde hair that has a bit of a curl to it, cut into a kid-friendly bob just above her shoulders. Her eyes are a soft hazel, and she has what was probably a stunning figure before three children, that has now softened into a comfortable curviness. She’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and a blue-and-black plaid shirt with the elbows rolled up, along with sneakers, and everything about her radiates a sort of friendly coziness that would make just about anyone feel at home around her.

Even I, who feel decidedly out of place and not at home everywhere and around everyone here, get a hint of that feeling when I’m with her.

I follow Marie out to where her sensible silver minivan is parked. It smells faintly of Cheetos and milk, and I wrinkle my nose as I slide into the passenger’s side. Marie hops in next to me, starting the car as she glances at me with an apologetic smile.

“I should grab a new air freshener,” she says, just as the raspy tones of a male country singer I wouldn’t begin to recognize drift out of the speakers. “Kids really make a mess of a car. I had a really nice little Ford sedan before I had my third. Now it’s all minivans until one of them grows out of needing a car seat.”

I nod along, trying to seem understanding. The disconnect between the life I lived and the one that Marie currently lives makes me feel like I’m on a different planet—one where, if everyone around me knew what I was thinking, they would find me unbearably spoiled. It’s that perception that I know they’d have of me that keeps me from getting closer to everyone. I can’t imagine telling Marie that the idea of a minivan has never occurred to me, because my eventual plans for children always involved nannies, drivers, and private schools.

Just like my eventual husband would have been, I imagine, very different from what Marie’s marriage looks like—and probably the rest of the women here, too.

I know I seem detached to them. Cold. Like I don’t want to be a part of their lives or world here, making them wonder why I really moved here at all. But the truth is, I don’t know if I want to fit in. For twenty-two years, I believed my life would be a certain way. I was shaped and molded to fit into an entirely different world. And I was given no choice when I was snatched out of that life, and shoved into the one I’m inhabiting now.

“How did you and your husband meet again?” I venture as Marie pulls out of my driveway. I know she’s told me before, but I also know she won’t hold it against me that I don’t remember, and I’m asking again. I should try , I remind myself. And I do like Marie. She’s been nothing but sweet and kind to me since I arrived. She’s nothing like the women I grew up with and around, but that might not be a bad thing.

“Oh, we met at the Crow Bar,” she says cheerfully, pulling out onto the main road that will take us into town. “Right after I graduated high school.”

“That’s the bar in town?” I recall seeing it a number of times during the day, on our way to go and get groceries. I’ve never gone into town at night, though.

“Sure is.” Marie glances over at me, grinning. “Only place to get a drink here. The bartender is really nice. They have dances there a couple of times a month, too. You know how to line dance?”

“I don’t,” I assure her, making a mental note to look up what, exactly, line dancing is when I get back to my computer.

“Well, it’s not that hard to learn.” Marie turns onto Main Street, which is just a strip of road with a series of businesses and shops on either side. “We could get you a pair of cowboy boots.” She gestures down towards the end of one side of the strip. “Then you’d really look the part.”

I try not to wince. “I’ll have to think about that.”

Marie chuckles, parking in front of the coffee shop. I’ve been here a couple of times already—it’s a small, rustic little place called the Cedar Bean , which is apparently a play on words that had to be explained to me my first visit here. They have good coffee, and if I could ever figure out how to make my coffee pot work, I could get grounds here from them .

The thought still doesn’t feel right in my head, and I have that sense of displacement again. It’s not that I mind doing things like making my own coffee or doing my own laundry or grocery shopping. I don’t think I’m above it or anything like that. It’s just—strange. After a lifetime of never needing to do those things—and so many others—I feel like I’m trying to learn how to be a different person.

Honestly, there’s a novelty to it that almost might be enjoyable, if it weren’t for the fact that the circumstances of that displacement were so violent.

I slide out of Marie’s minivan, and instantly shiver as the chilly air hits me. It’s really not that cold, not compared to this time of year in Chicago, but the stress seems to have lowered my tolerance for a lot of things, including cold.

“Here,” Marie says, thrusting a flannel jacket at me. “This’ll warm you right up.”

Reflexively, I start to refuse and then take it from her, anyway. She’s trying to be nice, I remind myself, and here, refusing offers of help and neighborliness is an insult.

I shrug the flannel on, the scent of wood smoke and a man’s spicy deodorant hitting me. It must belong to her husband, I think as I follow Marie into the coffee shop, the little bell chiming above us as the door opens. I breathe in the scent again, an odd sort of loneliness hitting me with a pang in my chest.

I wonder what Kian smells like. The thought comes out of nowhere as we get in line, and I feel my cheeks heat slightly. I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that at all, but the memory of him sitting at my kitchen table suddenly feels more intimate.

What if I wanted to go out on a date with him? I have no intention of taking Sheriff Brady up on his offer, but still—for the first time in my life — I consider what it might be like to choose to go out with someone. My whole life, I assumed that my future husband would be chosen for me. I would have no say in the matter—or at best, my father would give me the choice of a few suitable options, and let me decide who I liked most. My father loved and valued me in his own way—the fact that I was still unmarried at twenty-two is proof of that— so that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, back when I was still the only daughter of a powerful Bratva pakhan .

Back when I was Sabrina Petrova, instead of Sabrina Miller. When I lived in a mansion instead of in a small one-bedroom rental home with creaky pipes and a loose front step.

“What do you know about Sheriff Brady?” I ask Marie as we step over to the other side of the counter to wait for our orders—an iced pecan latte for me, and a hot pumpkin spice latte for her. “He stopped by my house this morning.”

“I heard he’s been making the rounds. He stopped by my place a couple of days ago. Whew .” Marie fans herself with one hand, grinning mischievously at me. “He’s gorgeous . Not that I would ever let my husband hear me say that, but what a man. He’s going to have trouble fending off every girl old enough to look at him in this town, married or not. He certainly has his pick—if he’s interested.”

“So he really did take over for the sheriff before. Wayne.” I bite my lip, unsure whether I’m relieved or disappointed to get this information. On the one hand, that means Kian isn’t what I feared—someone who was trying to get access to me by posing as someone I would be inclined to let into my house.

On the other hand—that means that he lives here, too. That I’ll probably run into him on any number of occasions. That strange feeling squirms through my stomach again, and I’m grateful when the barista pushes my and Marie’s lattes over, giving me a distraction.

“It really was time for Wayne to retire,” Marie says, as we take our coffees back out to the minivan. “He’s getting up there, you know? And he’s had a bit of heart trouble these last couple of years. Now, he can retire with his wife and fish to his heart’s content. Spend time with the grandbabies. I’m glad he finally felt like he could.”

“So where is Sheriff Brady from?” I keep thinking of him as Kian in my head, and I chastise myself to stop. The more distance I put between the handsome man who showed up on my doorstep this morning and myself, the better.

I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t have any space in my life to date right now. I’m trying to figure out how to survive in a new town, a new environment, and how to blend in in a place that couldn’t be more different from how I’ve spent my whole life up until now. And even if I wanted to date him—or anyone—I don’t know how I would begin to go about it. The idea of having free rein over that part of my life, when for so long it hasn’t been up to me at all, is terrifying.

“I don’t actually know.” Marie considers as she pulls out of the parking spot, heading for the road that will take us to the next town over—a town large enough to have a Barnes and Noble. “I didn’t ask when he came by. But he did say he moved here not too long ago, after taking the job. Maybe he wanted to slow down, like you.”

“But no one knows where he worked in law enforcement before? For what city?” I frown, that unsettled feeling that I had when he first showed up on my doorstep flickering back to life. There’s no real reason to think that he’s up to anything nefarious, but—I’m paranoid now. I can’t help it. After everything that’s happened to me recently, I think I have every right to be.

“Oh, I mean—I’m sure the people who need to know, know.” Marie waves a hand casually. “I just didn’t pry. Some folks around here love to pry, but I try not to gossip too much. Makes others not trust you, you know?”

“That’s true,” I say quietly. “You haven’t pried too much.”

Marie asked the same questions everyone else did when I first met her—where I was from, what made me decide to move to Rivershade, how I liked renting the old Farrow place. From the reaction of everyone who heard where I was living now, Sheriff Brady’s estimation of Mr. Farrow as a shady landlord is spot on. Everyone seemed to think I was getting a raw deal, even though I never said exactly what I’m renting it for. But then again, I don’t know exactly what I’m renting it for. Agent Caldwell does, but I just haven’t bothered asking.

“I figure folks will open up in their own time,” Marie says cheerily, turning the channel to something that sounds a bit more folk than country. Still not any artist I’m familiar with. “You even have, a little.”

“A little.” I manage a smile. “I’m just not used to people being so friendly. ”

“Well, I suppose not everyone is like we are. I’ve lived here my whole life, so I’ve never known anything different.”

“You’d hate Chicago,” I assure her. And she probably would. I can’t imagine sweet, friendly Marie in downtown Chicago, navigating the crowds and curt, no-nonsense people, the trains and fast, in-your-face service. I haven’t been to the Crow Bar yet, but I can imagine that the bartenders there probably talk your ear off while taking your drink order. The pace of everything is probably as slow as it is in all the other spots in this town.

“I’ve never really had any desire to travel,” Marie admits, as she pulls off the main road. “Greg does construction—I think I told you that—and so he travels around a bit for jobs. Back before we had kids, I could go on the road with him if I wanted, and I did a couple of times. But I just never really had any desire to keep on doing it. I’m happy here.”

“That’s good.” I bite my lip again as I say it, trying to imagine what it would be like to be happy living here. To be satisfied in such a small place, with no desire to experience anything more.

“What about you?” Marie asks as she parks. “I don’t think I asked before. Have you traveled a lot?”

“A little, here and there. Boston, New York.” I don’t dare tell her all the other places I’ve been in the past with my father—Rome, London, Paris. She’d know then exactly how different my life has been from hers, and the gulf between us would widen even further. “Enough to know I needed some time away from the city.”

“Well, you’ll definitely get that here.” Marie parks the car, turning it off as we both get out to head into the bookstore. I still have half of my coffee left, and I bring it with me.

It’s a relatively small Barnes and Noble, nothing compared to the huge store in Chicago, but there’s a familiarity to it that makes me glad we could go here. There isn’t any local bookstore in Rivershade—something that Cindy, one of the other women in the book club, has talked about trying to change. But for now, this is our best option, and I’m glad.

Marie and I both grab a copy of the cozy mystery we’re reading this month, something about a beach vacation gone wrong that becomes an investigation. It’s not my usual cup of tea, but I’m willing to try it. The book we read at the end of last month when I joined, a paranormal urban fantasy, was more my speed.

But these days, it’s harder than usual to lose myself in a book. Romantic fantasy, once a pleasurable escape from the reality of an eventual arranged marriage, now seems even more preposterous. Thrillers and horror are entirely impossible for me to read, pushing me to the edge of a panic attack. And sweet romances feel too sugary. I walk past a shelf of high fantasy series, looking at the titles and considering picking one of them up. That feels like the kind of world I could lose myself in—or maybe something science fiction, completely out of the realm of possibility in the real world.

But then again, maybe not, considering how I feel as if I’m on a different planet these days.

We spend a little more time walking around, before Marie checks her watch and says we need to head back, so she doesn’t miss her kids getting home from school. She grabs another coffee from the small cafe, citing how much energy they always have when they get home, and then we check out, heading back out to the car.

Despite only having had one coffee, I feel full of jittery energy when Marie drops me off at the end of my driveway. The sight of my house brings back the memory of Sheriff Brady stopping by this morning, and I feel that fluttering sensation in my stomach again, the unsettled feeling tangling up with it until I’m no longer exactly sure what I’m feeling.

Do I distrust him? Or am I just attracted to him, and mistaking that for fear? Even if I am attracted to him, there’s no point in thinking about it. He’s one of the last people I should consider getting involved with. As someone in law enforcement, if he doesn’t already know about my past, he would pretty quickly after looking into me a little more closely. And surely he would notice the FBI agent who occasionally makes house calls.

I would have to tell the truth to anyone I dated, eventually. And no one will want to deal with what I’m running from. Any man with half a brain would run in the other direction.

Speaking of running ?—

I can think of one productive way to get rid of my excess energy. I jog up the driveway to my front door, unlocking it—no one else here seems to lock their doors, but I refuse to consider anything else—and head back to my bedroom. I have a pair of leggings and a single sports bra shoved into one of the drawers, and I drag them out, giving them a quick sniff to make sure they’re still clean. I haven’t gone running much since arriving here, too afraid of being seen. But if I’m going to be here for the foreseeable future, I have to start trying to figure out how to live some kind of life.

And a run is exactly what I need to settle my nerves and clear my head.

I lace up my sneakers and head out through the kitchen to the back door that leads out to my small yard. There’s a wooden fence around the postcard-sized bit of grassy land, with a gate that leads to a trail winding through the woods. I don’t know exactly where it ends up, but Marie told me that it’s a decent enough trail for walks or running. Some of the other residents use it to walk their dogs or go for hikes.

Marie warned me about snakes and other wildlife, but considering the late afternoon chill, I don’t think I’ll need to worry about that. Anything cold-blooded will have burrowed away, and I can’t imagine black bears coming so close to a residential area.

I start off at a slow jog when I reach the trailhead, getting used to the feeling of running over uneven ground and moving again. For the last several weeks, my workout routine has consisted of some yoga videos and crunches at home, and as I warm up, the familiar feeling of going for a run gets my adrenaline up.

I pick up my pace, feeling a sense of relief at something else that I’m used to, that feels like me . I think I hear the sound of running water in the near distance, and I turn down the curve of the trail that seems to lead in that direction, wanting to explore a bit more.

The autumn sunlight filters through the trees, warming my skin and casting everything in a beautiful golden glow. I can feel the tension draining out of me, and I let out a long breath, my lips twitching in a real smile for the first time in weeks. This is different from what I’m used to at home, but it’s beautiful in its own way, and I have the thought that I could get used to it. I could make this a part of my routine, running on the trail behind my house?—

A sound startles me, catching my attention to the left. It sounds like leaves rustling—and then almost like heavy footsteps, coming through the trees in that direction. My heart trips in my chest, my adrenaline turning from something pleasant to something cold and fearful, and my stomach tightens.

I slow my pace, looking over to the left. I don’t see anything moving through the trees at first, but then there’s a shape—something dark and too tall to be a bear.

Did someone follow me? Has someone been watching ? I remember the rustling I’ve heard sometimes outside of my house at night, sounds that I told myself over and over were just trees shaking in the wind. Was I right to be afraid all along?

All of my attention is focused on the woods to my left, so much so that I’m not watching where I’m going. My foot catches on a large rock, almost tripping me, and as I pitch forward, only just catching myself before I fall, I hear a sudden, sharp buzzing to my right.

I freeze, some primal instinct taking over as I look slowly in the direction of this new noise. My heart nearly stops in my chest, panic clawing up my throat as I see a rattlesnake as thick as my forearm, coiled tightly next to the rock I tripped over, head poised in my direction and tail shaking furiously.

My mouth opens to scream, even though I know it’s no use. It’s going to strike, and no one knows I’m out here. There’s no one to help me, and?—

“Sabrina.”

Kian Brady’s voice cuts through the air behind me, his drawl lost in the sudden sharpness of his tone.

“Don’t fucking move.”