Free Lace & Lead (novella) by M.A. Grant

“Yeah.”
    “Drop them by my apartment later tonight.”
    “Sure thing, boss.”
    Another thing off his list. With credits and no father on her back, Emma would be able to start that new life of hers soon. Which was good because all he could think about was watching her face as she rode him into oblivion.
    “Dammit all to hell,” Peirce growled under his breath.
    The walk back to his apartment should have cleared his head. Instead, his mind was twisting on itself, obsessing over the tiny details of Emmaline’s face, her body, her voice. He was losing it.
    Too many years fighting in the wars. Too many missions behind enemy lines, leading the assaults, being knee-deep in shit that stank to high heaven. Too many years trying to repent for Callie’s loss. Too long spent hiding from the fact that he was getting old and sentimental and that he had no life waiting for him outside his work. His bloody, fucked-up work.
    He’d never wash his hands of it all.
    The elevator dinged open. The hallway was quiet as ever, but there was a strange scent in the air. He sniffed, memories stirring deep below the surface. It was coming from his apartment.
    The moment the door opened, the past surged up and sucker punched him.
    Callie and he sitting at the kitchen table while their mother served dinner. Another blue-blood meal, the kind that resulted in leftovers his friends would mock him for. But it didn’t matter because she was there and his broke-as-sin, welder father was smiling like his face would split open and Callie was giggling and he was so happy even though they all knew his mother would leave again after they’d finished eating —
    Douglass waved to him from the couch. “Welcome home, sir. Kai suggested I come over until you got back.”
    He didn’t add the obvious reason why: in case Gregson sent someone to the apartment.
    “Miss Gregson asked for some things,” Douglass continued.
    Peirce couldn’t respond. He was transfixed by the sight in his kitchen.
    Emma was there, wearing one of the dresses he had bought her, and that silver and blue corset pushing her breasts up to there , her hair up and her face flushed in excitement as she set the small table. She looked up and their eyes met and he couldn’t breathe.
    His mother in her pale blue walking dress, a delicate confection of a hat perched atop her head, handkerchief in her hand, tears in her eyes. She wasn’t coming back. Couldn’t. A kiss for Callie, a pat on his head, a tearful shake of her head at his father who was still pleading with her. Who was falling to his knees and begging. She was walking out the door—
    “Get the fuck out,” he ordered to Douglass.
    The man was a good soldier. The only noise in the silent apartment was the sound of the door closing behind him.
    “Hi,” Emmaline said, hands wringing nervously. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done and lunch seemed like a good idea—”

    Emmaline gestured at the spread, but stopped when she saw the way his lip had curled in revulsion. And the look he was giving her...
    Dread blossomed in the pit of her stomach.
    “Um...” She picked up a premade plate, one she’d carefully arranged for him.
    He was still watching her and she didn’t like the distance in his eyes.
    “My mother taught me to make this,” she continued with false bravado. “It’s a traditional dish.”
    “I know.”
    Gods, his tone was cold.
    “You do?”
    That definitely wasn’t a smile. It probably couldn’t even be classified as a smirk. A smirk at least had humour behind it.
    “My mother used to make it for us.”
    “She knew the recipe too?”
    “Of course. Every blue-blood knows it.”
    Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have moved. His words and tone were brutal, but he hadn’t been looking at her when he’d said them and if they didn’t refer to her... His hatred of the upper-class suddenly made sense. His mother must have been one of them—
    “Don’t.”
    She wasn’t sure what