(Ollie POV)
The world was a narrow, painful place. It consisted of the ache in my broken arm, the chill of the mud seeping through my trousers, and the weight of every eye in this Maroon camp upon me. They saw a snake. A traitor. And they were right.
I was tethered to a post near the smoking remains of the central fire, not with ropes, but with disdain. Landy’s words echoed in my skull, a cold, life sentence. You are not my brother. I had traded my brother for a promise of safety, and Fred had thrown me to the wolves the moment I became more liability than asset. The irony was a bitter pill I couldn’t spit out.
I kept my head down, studying the intricate patterns of mud and crushed grass. This was my life now. To be despised until I was disposed of. There was a certain bleak freedom in having hit rock bottom.
Then, I heard a sound. Not the harsh commands of the guards or the low, distrustful murmurs of the others. It was a hum. A soft, slightly off-key melody that cut through the grim atmosphere like a sunbeam through swamp gas.
I risked a glance up.
And the world, which had been so narrow, exploded into color.
She was standing over a large, black iron pot, stirring its contents with a paddle almost as tall as she was. She was… messy. Her hair was a cloud of dark curls escaping a simple headwrap, her face was smudged with soot, and her dress was patched in three different places. But she moved with an effortless grace, her hips swaying slightly to the rhythm of her own humming. And her face… it was round and honest, with eyes that held a spark of wit even as she focused on her work.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
As if feeling my stare, she looked up. Her humming stopped. Her eyes, the color of rich, dark earth, met mine. They weren't filled with the hatred I saw in everyone else’s. They were filled with… assessment. A dry, unimpressed curiosity, as if I were a peculiarly grubby bug that had crawled into her kitchen.
My heart, which I thought had shriveled into a dead thing, gave a single, frantic thump. I quickly looked down, my face burning.
“Don’t you have something better to stare at than my grits, city boy?” Her voice was like the rest of her—unvarnished, melodic, and laced with a challenge.
I had no words. My silver tongue, the one that had talked me into and out of so much trouble, was useless. All I could manage was a strangled, “They… they smell good.”
It was the stupidest thing I’d ever said.
She let out a short, surprised laugh. “They’re grits. They smell like grits. You hit your head harder than we thought?” She went back to stirring, but a tiny, amused smile played on her lips.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
That smile was a hook, set deep in my soul. I would have said a thousand stupid things to see it again.
(CeeCee POV)
Lord, save me from foolish men.
First, I’m playing lady-in-waiting to a heartbroken princess disguised as a boy. Now, I’m playing cook for a camp full of fugitives, and the latest addition is a treacherous worm who can’t stop staring like a lovesick calf.
I’d seen his type before. Ollie. The talker. The charmer. The one who thought he could slide through life on a smile and a lie. I saw the way he’d looked at me—not with the leering appraisal of the overseers at Le Château, but with the wide-eyed, desperate wonder of a man seeing his first glimpse of water after days in the desert. Pathetic. And yet…
There was something different about him now. The slickness was gone, sanded away by terror and betrayal. What was left was raw, pathetic, and strangely… honest. When he’d mumbled about my grits smelling good, the sheer, unadulterated idiocy of it was so genuine I couldn’t help but laugh.
Rose would have my head. I knew the story. I knew he’d sold out Landy, which meant he’d indirectly endangered my Rose. For that, I should have been adding nightshade to his portion.
But watching him huddle by that post, looking as lonely and discarded as a stray dog, my anger couldn’t find a foothold. It was just… pity. And a healthy dose of annoyance.
Later, when I was carrying a bucket of water back from the creek, I saw him struggling. His one good arm was fumbling, trying to loosen the knot on his waterskin. It was a pitiful sight. He was all angles and awkwardness, a puppet with its strings cut.
I stomped over. “For heaven’s sake.”
He flinched, looking up at me with those guilty, startled eyes.
I didn’t say another word. I just took the waterskin from his clumsy hands, untied it in one swift motion, and thrust it back at him.
He stared at the skin, then back at me. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words so full of genuine, unearned gratitude it was almost embarrassing.
“Don’t mention it,” I grumbled, turning to leave.
“My name is Ollie,” he blurted out.
I stopped, looking back over my shoulder. “I know what your name is.”
“Oh. Right.” He deflated. “And you’re…?”
“CeeCee. The one with the grits that smell like grits.” I started walking again.
“They were very good grits!” he called after me, his voice cracking with sincerity.
I shook my head, but I couldn’t stop the smile this time. Foolish, foolish man.
(Ollie POV)
Her name was CeeCee. It was a name as straightforward and lovely as she was. She was the only person in this entire camp who hadn’t spat near my feet or looked at me with outright murder in their eyes. She’d… helped me. For no reason.
The next day, I was determined to be useful. My arm was a useless, throbbing weight, but I could use my legs. I saw her heading out to gather firewood, a large basket hooked over her good arm.
I scrambled up. “Let me help.”
She eyed the sling holding my broken arm. “You’re gonna help? With what? Your winning personality?”
“I can carry the basket,” I said, my voice too eager. “With my good arm.”
She sighed, a long-suffering sound that suggested I was the greatest trial she’d ever faced. “Fine. Don’t drop it. And don’t talk too much. I enjoy the quiet.”
I fell into step beside her, hefting the basket. It was heavy, but it felt like I was carrying something precious. We walked in silence, just the sound of our feet on the soft earth and the buzz of the swamp. For the first time since I’d arrived, the knot of terror in my chest began to loosen.
I stole a glance at her. She moved through the undergrowth with a native’s ease, pointing out a root I should avoid, a thorny vine to step over. She was competence personified.
“I’m… not who I was,” I said suddenly, breaking her rule of silence.
She didn’t look at me. “People don’t just change, Ollie. They just get cornered into showing who they really are.”
The words should have stung, but they didn’t. They were the truth. “Then maybe I’m finally in the right corner,” I said softly.
She stopped then, turning to look at me fully. Her earthy eyes searched mine, not for lies, but for… something else. Substance. She was checking to see if there was anything solid beneath the mess.
She didn’t find an answer, but she didn’t look away in disgust either. That was a start.
“Come on,” she said, her voice a shade less sharp. “That basket’s not gonna fill itself.”
I followed her, a strange, fragile hope blooming in my chest. It was a feeling I didn’t recognize, born not from cunning or deception, but from the simple, terrifying act of being seen by a woman with soot on her face and heaven in her eyes. For the first time in my life, I wanted to be a better man than I was. Not for safety, not for gain.
But for her.