The Fox in the Henhouse(5)

The door slammed shut behind Lena as she headed out of the inn, the sound echoing in the now-quiet dining area. Gregory stood still for a moment, his mind swirling with thoughts he didn't want to admit. He glanced at the closed door, his chest tight, and took a deep breath. Why is she getting to me like this? He rubbed the back of his neck, his skin still warm from her flirtatious comments and subtle provocations. She's just a guest... but damn if she isn't the most alluring one we've ever had.

Martha stormed out from the kitchen, her eyes practically glowing with fury. She snatched the dishcloth from the counter and furiously began wiping down the already clean surface, muttering curses under her breath. Gregory could sense her rage without even looking. The tension in the air was thick and suffocating, like the lingering cigarette smoke from Lena's exit.

"You look like a fool, you know that, don't you?" Martha snapped, her voice tight with barely contained anger.

Gregory turned slowly to face her, guilt and frustration battling inside him. "What are you talking about?"

Martha threw down the dishcloth and folded her arms, glaring at him. "Oh please, Gregory. You've been drooling over that woman since the moment she walked in. She treats you like dirt, and you just stand there, taking it. And for what? Because she's got a pretty face? Because she bats her eyes at you and sways her hips?"

Gregory opened his mouth to defend himself, but the truth in her words stung. He couldn't deny the effect Lena had on him. He was distracted, and it was obvious. "She's just... difficult," he finally muttered, trying to downplay the situation, though he knew it was useless.

Martha let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Difficult? She's like a nightmare, Gregory! You're acting like some love-struck idiot while she insults this place, insults us, and you just let her walk all over you!"

Gregory's face flushed. "I'm not—"

"Oh, please!" Martha cut him off, stepping closer. "You practically sprinted to get her dress when she snapped her fingers. And now she's got you wrapped around her little finger, doing whatever she asks."

"She's a guest, Martha," Gregory said, his voice low, but defensive. "We're supposed to take care of her."

"Not like that," Martha shot back, her lips curling in disgust. "She's using you, Gregory, and you're too blind to see it. You think she cares about you? She doesn't give a damn about anyone but herself. And all you're doing is feeding her ego, acting like a lovesick puppy."

Gregory clenched his fists at his sides. He didn't want to admit it, but Martha's words cut deep. He was acting like an idiot. Lena had an effect on him he couldn't quite control, and it bothered him—deeply. But what was worse was how obvious it had become to everyone, especially Martha, who was already seething with jealousy.

Martha's voice softened, but the edge of bitterness remained. "You need to wake up, Gregory. That woman is trouble. And if you're not careful, you're going to get hurt."

Gregory looked down, feeling the weight of her words. He sighed, trying to push Lena out of his mind. "I know," he admitted quietly. "I know she's trouble, but... I just can't help it."

Martha huffed, throwing her hands up in frustration. "Typical man," she muttered, turning her back to him as she picked up the dishcloth again, furiously scrubbing the countertop. "You let one pretty face walk in, and all your common sense goes out the window."

Gregory didn't argue. What could he say? He was letting Lena get under his skin, and it was affecting everything—from his work, to his thoughts, to his interactions with Martha.

The tension lingered in the room, thick and heavy. Gregory felt like he should say something to ease the situation, but every word that came to mind felt inadequate. So, he remained silent, letting Martha's angry scrubbing fill the space between them.

Minutes passed like hours, until finally, Martha slammed the dishcloth down one last time and stood up straight, her hands resting on her hips. "Well, I'm going to check on the other guest and make sure he is alright," she said, her tone clipped and professional. "You just... do whatever it is you're doing."

She shot Gregory one last withering look before marching out of the dining area, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Gregory exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Why does it feel like everything's falling apart? He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, like the arrival of Lena had disrupted the balance of everything at the inn. And now, here he was, standing in the midst of the chaos, unsure of how to fix it.

Lena, meanwhile, was making her way toward the bathhouse. The wind tugged at the hem of her dress, and a smirk danced on her lips. She felt powerful—invincible even. The way Gregory looked at her, the way his eyes lingered just a little too long, made her feel in control. Men were so easy to manipulate, so simple in their desires. All it took was a little charm, a little teasing, and they were putty in her hands.

*****

As she approached the bathhouse, her mind wandered back to the inn. Martha, she thought with a smirk. The woman was so transparent, her jealousy practically radiating off her in waves. Lena had noticed it from the moment they'd met—the way Martha's eyes hardened when she spoke, the way her jaw tightened when Lena gave orders. She's so easy to rile up. It was almost too much fun.

Lena lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply and enjoying the brief moment of solitude. She wasn't concerned about Martha, not really. Women like her were all the same...clinging to their morals and judgments like shields, trying to maintain some sense of superiority. But in the end, they always broke. They always gave in.

As Lena reached the bathhouse, she crushed the cigarette under her heel and stepped inside, her thoughts already shifting. She was here to hide after all and it wasn't to toy with the simple folk of this town. Better to tone down the urges.

*****

Back at the inn, Gregory paced the dining area, his thoughts tangled in a web of confusion and desire. He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that had settled in his chest, but at the same time, he couldn't stop thinking about Lena—about the way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she made him feel like a fool and a king all at once.

He glanced toward the door, half-expecting her to return any minute now, demanding something else—attention, food, service. And despite everything, he knew he'd give it to her. God help me, he thought. I'd give her anything.