“It’s because of me,” he said adamantly. “I broke her. And she hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Daniel said. “And neither does her fox.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Besides, even if she did, it’s not the worst thing,” Gabriel added. “Hate isn’t the opposite of love, you know. It’s indifference.”
“She’s just mad and hurt,” Anders pointed out. “And it’s understandable. Rejection is hard to get over.”
“I didn’t reject her … well, I did at first. Fuck, why didn’t I see it?” He gnashed his teeth together. That day he told her to go. No, he didn’t just do that. He left her on the side of the mountain. “You’re right.” But where to begin?
“You guys must have talked some, right?” Anders said. “Even a little.”
“Yeah.” Of course they did. Every single thing Dutchy said in that short span of time was burned into his mind. How could he forget?
“Also, sometimes it’s not about what a woman says or does.” Gabriel said. “It’s about what she doesn’t say.”
“What—” Gabriel’s words gave him an idea. Actually, everything they all said was beginning to make sense now. It was time he fully got to know who Dutchy was, and from there, figure out how he was going to heal her.
Breaking and entering into her home was probably not the best way to get to know Dutchy, but he would do anything to get her back. Damon knew where it was as Dutchy had designed Anna Victoria’s gown, and he’d picked her up there once. So, before Krieger went back to his cabin, he decided to stop by for a visit.
The small, single-story home was located just at the edge of town. It looked ordinary enough, painted blue and white with a small lawn outside that sadly had seen better days. He crept around to the backyard and approached the back door. Jiggling it experimentally, he applied his shifter strength and broke the handle, then pulled it open.
The first thing that hit him was the powerful stench of garbage. Jesus. Well, it had been two weeks since she was home, so her trash was probably just sitting inside, rotting in the bin. Still, the pile of dishes in the sink, boxes of takeout containers on the table, and growing stack of mail on the counter looked like they had been weeks old.
Striding out of the kitchen, he walked down the narrow hallway. The first door he passed by was ajar, so he peeked inside. From the scent in the air, he knew it was her bedroom, and he stepped inside.
The queen-sized bed was unmade, and clothes were left in a pile in the corner, but it wasn’t in as bad a state as the kitchen. Before leaving, he reached for the silk robe hanging from a hook behind the door and pressed it to his nose. Dutchy. Her scent had long faded from his uniform shirt and his sheets, but he would sometimes imagine it was still there, only the memory of it burned in his mind.
Forcing himself to leave her most private den, he continued his exploration of her house, glad to see that at least the living room looked in order. It was homey, not overly feminine, but comfortable and lived-in, for sure. One wall held a shelf of books. Half were big glossy coffee table books about fashion and photography, but the rest were novels. He pulled one out, noting the well-worn spine, and raised a brow at the cover featuring a man clad in nothing but a kilt, well-built chest bared, holding a woman whose breasts threatened to spill out of her top. He put it back and did a cursory scan of the other spines noting the titles and author names. All romance novels, a fact he filed away in his brain before turning to inspect the rest of the room.
There were various photos and knickknacks on the wall. Pictures of her with friends. Parties. Weddings. But the one of her wearing a graduation cap and a red robe, her arms around an older woman, caught his eye. The woman looked so much like Dutchy that he concluded it was probably her mother.
He was about to turn back when he saw another door on the other side of the living room, so he approached it. It was closed, but not locked, so he pushed it open.
Stepping inside, he deduced this was her work space. Two sewing machines were pushed against one of the windows. Several bolts of fabric were propped up against