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Thank God.
I didn’t wait another moment. I ran and ran, finding the kitchen in the southwest corner of the house. Leaving the lights off, I dashed for the refrigerator and swung it open, racks of fruits and vegetables shifting with the motion.
I looked around, gaping at the size for a moment. It was a walk-in. I thought Taylor said they had to hunt for their meat. There was a shitload of food right here.
I stepped inside the space, the immediate temperature change making me shiver as I scanned the shelves of food, all looking freshly stocked. Cheeses, bread, deli meats, butter, milk, carrots, squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, grapes, bananas, mangoes, lettuce, blueberries, yogurt, hummus, steaks, hams, whole chickens, burgers…
And this wasn’t counting the pantry they probably had, too.
Why would they have to hunt?
Wasting no more time, I grabbed the netted bag hanging inside and dumped out the produce it stored, quickly stocking it with two bottles of water, an apple and some cheese. Maybe I should bring more, but I couldn’t take the weight right now.
Diving back out of the fridge, I tied the bag closed and raced to the window, inching up on my tiptoes and seeing flashlights dance across the vast lawn.
I almost smiled. I had time to find a coat or sweater and get the hell out of here before they got back.
Spinning on the ball of my foot, I took a step, but then I saw him standing right there, a dark form leaning against the door frame to the kitchen, staring at me.
I halted, my heart leaping into my throat.
At least I thought he was staring at me. His face was hidden in shadow.
My lungs froze, aching.
And then I remembered…wolves. They surround you.
All except one. He came at you from the front.
“Come here,” he said in a low voice.
My hands shook, knowing that voice. And those exact words he’d said to me that one night.
“Will…”
He stepped into the kitchen, moonlight casting a dim glow on his face, and something inside me ached.
He was big in high school, but now…
I swallowed, trying to wet my dry mouth.
A light spatter of raindrops glimmered on top of his messy but trimmed head of chocolate hair, and I’d never seen him with scruff on his face before, but it made him look harder—and more dangerous—in ways I didn’t realize would look so good on him.
His chest was broader, his arms in his black hoodie thicker, and he brought up his hands, using a cloth to wipe off blood that coated his fin
gers. Tattoos adorned the backs of his hands, disappearing up the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
He didn’t have any tattoos the last time I saw him.
The night he was arrested.
Where was the blood from? Hunting?
I backed away as he slowly advanced, but he wasn’t looking at me as he approached, just gazing at his hands as he cleaned them.
The cricket bat. Where was it?
I blinked long and hard. Shit. I’d set it down on the fridge floor when I packed the food.
