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

he meant by that. “Don’t?”
    “You don’t need to know about her. It’s none of your damn business.”
    This wasn’t what she’d planned for the afternoon. All she could manage was to ask, “Did I do something wrong?”
    “No.”
    He was lying.
    “You hate her.”
    His fists clenched. When he saw her looking at them, he crossed his arms over his chest, hiding his hands. “I don’t care about her.”
    Either this was the bravest thing she’d ever done, or the stupidest. Seeing him standing there with so much raw pain in his eyes, even though he was trying to hide it, pain put there unintentionally from her actions. It forced her hand. She took a small step toward him, holding onto the plate like it was a talisman.
    “Don’t lie to me, Peirce.”
    The muscle in his jaw was ticking. “I’m not talking about this.”
    Another tentative step. “I don’t know what she did to you, but whatever it was, it helped you become who you are today.”
    A sharp laugh. “A bastard merc who’s willing to take on any job as long as it’s good pay?” His eyes flicked to hers. “Even if it means selling someone into the sex trade?”
    Life with her father had taught her when a man was out to pick a fight. She didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t let him distract her from the real issue.
    “You’re brave and strong and loyal. You protected your men during the wars and still do. You find loopholes in bad contracts so you don’t have to fulfil the services. You open up your home to those in need.”
    He shifted uncomfortably, eyes now focused solely on the plate that was still moving towards him. “You don’t know shit about the world.”
    “You’re right,” she agreed, trying to keep her voice even. “I’m naïve and I’ll get into trouble all the time and I’ll make tons of mistakes. I’ll—”
    “Leave.”
    His voice was flat. She was two steps from him.
    She’d never imagined he’d say that. “What?”
    “You’ll leave.” He wouldn’t look at her. His body was coiled tensely on itself, radiating violence. “You always leave.”
    “I’m not leaving.”
    “You’ll leave.” His voice was bleak. “We’re never good enough for you.”
    He couldn’t be talking to her. He was caught in the past, stuck on some memory she couldn’t see, didn’t know. She tried again. “I’m not leaving.”
    He looked up and she couldn’t recognise him.
    “I’m not leaving, Peirce.”
    “Yeah, she said that too.” He shrugged, a slight inclination of his shoulders. “Loved money and her real husband more, I guess. Society over substance.”
    She had to make him understand. “ I’m not leaving.”
    He snorted.
    Ladies always controlled their anger. Ladies accepted the cards fate dealt and played their hands to the best of their ability. Ladies always stayed polite, no matter how bad the circumstances.
    Ladies did not hurl plates full of food at frustrating men. They did not behave like angry fishwives. They most definitely did not use profanities.
    She’d learned so much in so little time.
    “You arrogant son of a bitch!”
    The plate hit him square in the chest, spattering his arms with food, smearing gravy down his vest, before clattering to the floor and coming to a stop by his boot. The shock on his face was almost worth the pain and hurt she was feeling.
    “I spend hours preparing the perfect lunch for us, get dressed up in this fucking torture device, deal with all your past bullshit and all you can do is snort at me?”
    She reached behind her to the table and its carefully organised settings. He dodged the first glass as it shattered against the wall behind him. The spoon she launched hit his arm.
    “I HATE you!”
    She reached for her plate of food, not caring if she destroyed the entire meal and had no leftovers for tomorrow. He’d already ruined her overture. This outburst was his damn fault.
    She managed to grab the plate but he’d crossed the distance between them and stopped her from